Drops of Redemption
by Moonstruck88
Summary: A glib smirk, a bright blue flash of his eyes, and life was only a game. A sick game he left twisting at her soul. Sequel to Not As All Seems. FINISHED.
1. 1: Surrender

**Disclaimer: I do not own House M.D. or any of the characters from the series. I do, however, own my imagination (though the government may have partial ownership of that as well and I'm just too naive to know it). Rachel happens to be a product of said imagination, and as far as I know, she's mine. No touche. **

_A/N: I highly recommend reading Not As All Seems before attempting to read this story. Otherwise, you may start off - and end up - very confused, as this is the second in a series._

**Chapter 1: Surrender**

The water was hot. Steam crept lazily from the surface, painting the white walls with a mist and cleansing her black conscience with a fogginess. Every muscle relaxed; every elbow, finger, and toe surrendered as she settled back in the warmth of the tub - in the serenity of the silence. Cameron's eyes drifted closed and the candlelight flickered against her eyelids.

An aroma of Green Tea and Ginger lingered in a cloud around the bathtub, and for an hour, the world stood still for Cameron. She didn't think; she didn't analyze. She simply lay there - all but her face, her knees, and the tips of her breasts submerged beneath the surface.

The steady rhythm of her heartbeat echoed through the medium of water and assaulted her left ear with the sound. (Both ears were immersed, but only the left one could hear it - she had ruptured the eardrum as a kid, and that ear had been more sensitive ever since.) The sound was louder than it should have been; it became the only thing she _could_ hear, bouncing off the walls of the tub and throbbing through her body. A heartbeat couldn't be that loud. A fat man stomping on the floor of her bathroom, maybe. But not a delicate heartbeat. It was like she felt its very song within her - pulsing through her. Thick, red, and unredeemed.

She decided to play with the rhythm. Her eyes still resting closed, she took a breath - slow and deep - then released it even slower. Her heartbeat stalled and then . . . _pump_ . . ._ pump_ . . . in a calm and steady meter. She inhaled again and held it, paying close attention as the stomping of the fat man quickened - slightly at first, and then more-so. Ten seconds turned into twenty. Twenty turned into thirty-five. Her chest began to tighten - her little heart pounding against her rib cage in desperation. _Forty, forty-one, forty-two_ . . . She couldn't help but count; she was a doctor, and "more obsessive than she thinks she is". Upon hitting _forty-five_, her brain told her to release it and breathe again; but she found herself unable. She couldn't bring herself to release it. For a moment, she entertained the thought of _never_ releasing it.

But too soon, Cameron realized what she was doing. And that's when she unhitched her breath and gasped for some much-needed air. Her lungs immediately filled with steam and her body twitched under the water. She was shocked by the implications. Had she really just thought about causing herself to pass out and drown in the tub?

Cameron unstopped the drain and crawled from the warmth of the water. She couldn't stay there. She was a danger to herself in a way she never wished she could be. Wrapping a large towel around her dripping body in the dark, she left a candle burning on the edge of the tub and briskly walked to the bedroom. The apartment air was cold against her moist and soggy skin, but she didn't feel it. She felt like she was sweating.

She stumbled over a high-heeled boot that lay crumpled on the darkened floor of her bedroom. Cameron unraveled from her towel - now damp - and spread it diagonally over the sheets and blankets on her bed. She lay on top of it, flat on her stomach, naked and vulnerable to anything. And that was how she wanted it.

And still refusing to think.

Of anything.

Every muscle in her body relaxed, and she felt like a bowl of Jello. A warm, careless bowl of Jello. The bath had done its job; the therapeutic heat had healed her. Or she wished it had.

But she had no right to be healed. And she had no right to relax - not after last Friday. Not after hearing a little, red Corvette speed away with a frightened girl that should have been her.

_Yet here you stand - cold metal in hand.  
__Dead body on the floor.  
__In your head - this war,  
__That never will end. _

_Because redemption is nowhere._

The words kept playing in her mind. Like a foreign, but oh-so-familiar, dance. One she didn't know the moves to - but the moves definitely knew her. She had heard it somewhere, read it somewhere . . . Or maybe she made it up. Maybe it was simply catchy.

Sleep was unexpected, and that's why it finally came. Because it only comes when it's unexpected. Cameron drifted off - still naked, still vulnerable.

Four hours into the night, she awoke to find herself in the sheets. She must have gotten cold and pulled them out from under her. Her wet towel lay in a pitiful heap on the floor, and her wet hair was now a mass of tangles. She'd fix it in the morning. Right now, she didn't care. Her pillow was wet, her body was Jello, and her neck was . . . pouring with _sweat_. She felt it with her hand. Yes, it was definitely sweat. She must have been dreaming again - her subconscious's way of winning an argument. It always did get the last word. Cameron couldn't fight back in her sleep.

She dreamt of things she didn't want to think about. And only because she couldn't control it.

She tried to go back to sleep. But she was trying too hard, and sleep had gone too far. It was nowhere to be found now as she lay staring up at the ceiling, sheet pulled up to her chin. Now Cameron couldn't help but think. The night was unforgiving in that it raped all from the girl but her fears, and she had nothing left to dwell on. No facades left to hide her from the pain.

It was just her and the dark, and four very lonely walls. She saw a face. She would like to at least say she saw face**_s_**, but the only one she could see was House's. And his eyes were blue. Very blue. Too blue for something so terrible.

What about Rachel's? Cameron never even saw Rachel's eyes. And the thug - what color were his? No doubt his eyes were black. His heart sure was.

"_Change the world for me!_ " was all Cameron could hear, resounding over and over again in her head. It was Rachel's last plea. But Cameron couldn't bear it. She couldn't possibly live up to it. Before, her life had been worth something; but her life had _never_ been worth Rachel's. Nor would it ever be. And Cameron was not meant to takeRachel's place. To be 'meant' to do anything would mean that there was a God. And Cameron was an atheist.

Even more than she didn't believe there was a God, she didn't _want _to believe there was a God. Because if there was a God, He was unmistakably cruel. Just like House, Cameron _chose_ to believe in chance. Because chance can't be cruel or unmerciful. She found it more comforting to believe that "this isn't simply a test", that people like Rachel weren't lab rats.

But it left her with no one to blame. And so she blamed House. She lay blaming him every night for the guilt he'd left her to bear. And the hopelessness he daily refused to acknowledge. A glib smirk, a bright blue flash of his eyes, and life was only a game. A sick game he left twisting at her soul. Did it not twist at his own soul the same?

Cameron snored lightly and the scruffy face disappeared. The bright blue eyes went with it. Only the darkness was left.


	2. 2: Slipping Away

**Disclaimer: I do not own House M.D. or any of the characters from the series. **

_A/N: Oh yes, I forgot my Shout-Out's. I had not planned on making a sequel to 'Not As All Seems', but **Belligerent-road-pylon**_ _gave me the idea, and I ran with it. (Thanks a bunch!) I thought I could finally get all of my English papers done; guess not. Ah well, English is overrated anyway . . . And **kylerm, **thank you for keeping up with my last (and first) story. I kept writing it because of you._

_As ya'll can see, my bank of 'reviews' is severely lacking. I can use all the help I can get, so fire away. Your criticism is welcomed - with open arms and a shotgun. wink _(_No need to worry, my sense of aim is reserved for street ball and spit balls only._) _So, who's brave enough?_

**Chapter 2: Slipping Away **

The phone call had come when he least expected it. House was sitting in his office, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped up on the desk. Mario had performed exceptionally well that afternoon, and Cuddy had been exceptionally good at leaving House alone. Foreman was off doing paperwork, Chase had gone home early, and Cameron - well, she was around somewhere. Surely. That's when his beeper went off and he limped into the hallway, borrowing the nearest phone.

The call was short, and professional. Very businesslike. When he returned the phone to its cradle, the first thing he should have felt was sadness, for his little, red Corvette - or, if he was being un-House-like, sadness for a girl once-named Rachel. But the first thing he felt was: Cameron. And it wasn't sadness. No - it was relief, all over again, that she was still alive and well. Okay, maybe not _well,_ but alive. And that was all that mattered - for now.

Cameron had been extraordinarily quiet lately, and everyone was starting to worry. But no one hid it so well as House. Only _he_ knew that every smile she forged was fake, and every tear she didn't cry was real. Only _he_ knew the reason for her silence. And only _he_ pretended that she was fine. If she wanted people to think she was strong, he would give her that, at least. He would give her the world if he thought it would help.

But a chance to die and be chivalrous - _that_ he could not give her. And he would never apologize. Not once had he looked back with regret.

_Cameron_. House stood up off the wall and moved away from the phone. He needed to find Dr. Cameron. He hobbled around chatting nurses and rolling wheelchairs, past the conference room and the long glass wall of the lab. No Cameron. He didn't think she had clinic duty. But where was she? House tried to think back: where was the last place he had sent her?

_The lab_, he stopped walking. _The lab was the last place I sent her._

If he wasn't Greg House, he'd be out of ideas. But he kept better tabs on 'his girl' than people realized. She had come into work that morning with unpainted nails, no wristwatch, and extra curly hair, wearing a silver necklace and a cute - yet classy - outfit. But with each passing day, it got a little less classy, and a little more dreary. A little less Cameron and little more dark. But still cute. Always cute. And she had circles under her eyes.

_Bingo._ He knew exactly where Cameron was. And so, with a renewed sense of purpose (he takes what he can get), House step-thumped all the way back down the hall, past his lonely office, and around a busy corner. He rounded the corner at the end of that hall as well, and took an immediate left. His hand on the front of the door, House wondered how big of a scene he was about to cause. Then he wondered if it was actually worth it.

Deciding it didn't matter anyway, since he needed to talk to Cameron, he gave a gentle push. The wooden door came ajar, and his wooden cane slipped inside. So far, so good. He hadn't heard any shrieking yet - that was always good. Shrieking could only cause problems. House leaned on the door and it opened even farther. Stepping into the ladies' locker room, he should have felt out of place. But it takes more than that to make Greg Housefeel out of place, so he let the door close behind him and quickly looked around. No half-naked women darting for cover - a blessing and a curse. If he could just get to the back, it would be smooth sailing from there.

Limping across the ugly, yellow tile, squinting from the flourescent squares in the ceiling, he managed to make it to the back - undetected. The room before him held two small showers and an examination bed - shoved up against the wall and out the way. He'd only been in here twice, and that exam bed had struck him as odd both times. Nevertheless, it made for an excellent run-away-from-your-boss-and-take-a-nap haven. In Cameron's case, a run-away-from-the-world haven.

House could only hope she wasn't running away from _him_.

The room was dark, and the floor around the showers was wet. Only the light from the adjoining room gave a glow to where Cameron was laying, asleep and oblivious to his presence. Her body was twisted beautifully - her lower half curled toward the wall, but her back and shoulders flat on the bed. And her face was to the wall, resting on her right arm, and turned away from House.

From where he stood, he could see a brown curl slipping down the slope of her cheek, and stopping to whisper in her ear before it fell to the bed with the rest. For a moment House was jealous. He hobbled to stand above her, and found the view more than pleasing. Almost . . . _fulfilling,_ in a strange sense of the word. Everything about her from this angle - she contradicted him; she offset him. She made up for what he lacked.

Her skin was so soft. Her face was so pure. And her breath was so untouched. An innocence played across her features. An innocence forever shattered.

House tilted his head in the dark. He kept his hands to his sides as he graced the girl with his eyes. She was so sweet and vulnerable. And he was so rough and domineering. Cameron was completely unaware; she had no idea of the power he held over her. Not at this moment.

He tapped his cane on the ground. This was an interesting predicament.


	3. 3: Hide Me

**Disclaimer: I do not own House M.D. or any of the characters from the series.**

_A/N: I am terribly sorry about being so slow with these updates. I haven't been able to log in for days; I kept getting an error message. I'm also experiencing severe writer's block; I can sit here staring at a blank screen for hours on end. Ah well, at least the music's good. I will try to pick up the pace._

_Thank you for the reviews._

**Chapter 3: Hide Me**

As House regarded the young doctor, he toyed with the idea of twirling his calloused finger around a soft curl of her hair. It was just so inviting. So soft. So . . . _soft_. Wow.

He also thought about taking Cameron's resting face in his palms and doing something sweet - he didn't exactly know what. Her supple skin called to him. A secret. A forbidden longing that could never be fulfilled. His fingertips, his lips - oddly enough - buzzed with the need to do something to her.

But he slapped himself. Not mentally - physically. He slapped himself on the cheek, and the resulting echo woke Dr. Cameron with a startle. She didn't sit up - only opened her eyes. Immediately, she felt a presence lingering over her, and the vibe she got was disturbing. The shadow on the wall was disturbing. The silence was disturbing.

Everything felt wrong.

Turning her face away from the wall, she felt a warmth catch the back of her head as it rolled from it's resting place on her arm. Even that was disturbing. Bad electricity shot through her. Yet, the warmth was strong and gentle, and she felt five fingers touch her through her hair.

"Contorting your neck like that can be dangerous," House scolded, half-sarcastically, and lowered Cameron's head to the bed.

Blue eyes - so blue - bore through her. She would dance with those blue eyes if they weren't such liars. Always pretending; always avoiding. Always running from the truth. She couldn't possibly run with them.

She faintly moved away from him and House removed his hand. Apparently she wasn't as amused as he was. Then again, she wasn't peering down into the face of adorable innocence. She was peering up into years of gruffness and sin. House understood when she looked away.

"You're in the ladies' locker room." Cameron didn't bother sitting up.

"So are you," House countered.

"Yes, well . . . I'm a _lady_," she excused herself. Her voice was still a bit groggy.

"Don't let the whiskers and rugged jeans fool you. A little Nair and I'm just as much woman as you are." House winked. The wink was a little too soft. _Damn_. Here he was trying to be cold and distant. "So this is where you go to run away from the world," he looked around, pretending to survey her choice of haven. "Nice digs. Very simple; very modern. A little _wet_," he lifted a foot and glanced at the floor, "but the exquisite decor makes up for it."

Cameron wrinkled an eyebrow and rubbed her face with a sweaty palm. She began to un-contort her body from its odd sleeping position, twisting her lower half to lay flat on the bed. She writhed in pain from the sudden discomfort to her back.

"You know," House continued, pretending not to notice, "I had you pegged as more of the throw-rug-and-a-baby-blue-couch type girl. Sufficient lighting, rubber tree plant in the corner, maybe a Teddy bear and a zigzag pillow. Schmaltzy, overly sentimental, classic - something of that nature."

"You talk too much," she said between dwindling gasps of pain. "Why are you here?" She attempted to sit up.

That's when the wooden door on the other side of the locker room opened and two ladies came giggling inside. House's eyes widened slightly as the talking then got louder and noticeably closer. "Hide me," he whispered dramatically, trying to sound like a guilty teenage boy caught in his girlfriend's room past midnight.

"Hide yourself." Cameron was apathetic. "You got yourself into this."

"Now that was rude - "

"Tell me why you're here," she repeated, more forcefully this time.

"I will, if you'll hide me."

"And if I don't?"

"You don't get it," he whispered, "continued conversing between the two of us is not the objective here. You're supposed to agree and - "

Allison clapped her hand over his mouth and hopped down from the exam bed. Pain shot through her joints - still awkward from sleep - and she muffled a gripe through her teeth. House barely had time to put his cane to use as Cameron pushed him backwards and into one of the showers. His back hit the tile wall with a thud, and Cameron's body hitting his caused yet another thud to the wall.

"If I'd known you felt that way - " House began, but Cameron re-clapped her hand to his mouth and there was silence. Cameron slid the curtain closed just as the two women appeared in the entrance of the room. The ladies stood there quietly, looking into the room, as if contemplating the source of the 'thud'. Cameron tightly closed her eyes - the way she always did to deter the inevitable - and muffled her breathing against her boss's rumpled shirt. If there were anyone to pray to, she'd pray that those ladies would pick somewhere else to change their clothes.

House stood as still as he could, with his arms instinctively bent at the elbows and squished against his sides - his fingertips pointed toward the ceiling. The walls were wet, the floor was wet, and he was sure he'd catch a disease if he touched them. If high school showers were any precursor, his fears were duly merited. His back was probably festering with mold from the tile at this very moment. He was trying to concentrate on being quiet, but . . . naked women had been in here. And now he was in here. And so was Cameron. His concentration went haywire. But he did like the warm spot Cameron was breathing into the middle of his chest.

After a minute or two, the ladies finally decided to pass through the locker room and enter the restroom instead. Perhaps they'd been sufficiently creeped out. Perhaps they were apprehensive of the mold as well. Whatever the reason, it was one heck of a blessing for Cameron.

She removed her lips from his shirt - and her hand from his mouth - quicker than she probably should have, and backed out of the shower disgustedly.

"Well, you just have the _grandest_ ideas," House mocked, extremely careful upon exiting the shower, trying not to touch the walls - like he was playing Operation and he'd get shocked if the tweezers touched the edge.

"I'm glad you think so . . ." she retorted, hardly in a playful mood. She had just saved his ass from suspension and he was complaining. "Now, ante up. Why are you here?"

"You think we could blow this joint first?"

"No. No, House. You'll stall, you'll avoid the subject, you'll find a way around it. Tell me now." Only as she started fixing her hair did she realize she was standing in the locker room with her boss, slightly wet from being pressed against him in the shower.

"You don't understand. Locker rooms hang-out-spots are like, _so_ last year." He pressed his luck just a little further. By the look on her face, his luck was at the limit, and danger was clearly beyond. He watched her soft hair cascade over her shoulders as she lowered her arms back to her sides. "I got a phone call."

Cameron's expression was blank. She hadn't caught on. Or maybe she had, and that part of her was dead. Or dying. Or buried far away. She stared, waiting for him to continue.

And so, Greg House took another breath - a deep one - and looked to the wet tile below him. It looked harder and wetter than it had a second ago. What if he fell? That would hurt. For sure. Cameron was still glaring. Why did she glare like that? Did she think this was easy for him? Her eyes were so green. Or maybe they were hazel. They were something - they were beautiful. And numbing. He bit his lower lip. "Cameron, they found my license plate."

A twitch, in her eyes. Something snapped. Or died. Or awoke. It was so slight it was unreadable. "They found your car?"

"No," he corrected, "they found my license plate." House regarded her questioning gaze with a safe emotional distance. "Off a steep embankment sixteen miles from here."

**T.B.C. . . .**

_A/N: 'Operation' is (or was - I haven't played it since I was seven) a board game where each player takes turns removing a bone from this guy's body with tweezers. The bones are entrenched in the body (the board, essentially), and the walls of the entrenchment are metal. If the metal tweezers touch the walls while removing the bone, the guy's nose turns red and the player is 'shocked'. (Not that it hurts or anything.) Does anyone else remember that? _


	4. 4: Let Go

**Disclaimer: I do not own House M.D. or any of the characters from the series.**

**Chapter 4: Let Go**

Cameron's eyes grew wild with bewilderment. Or shock. Or dread. Maybe a mixture of the three. House thought and thought of something to lighten the mood, but he gave up upon realizing it wouldn't do any good. He couldn't avoid this conversation. Cameron had a right to know. He had to tell her the rest.

"Cameron, I'm serious, this locker room thing is getting old." _Damn._ He did it anyway - an offhand comment in the middle of a serious conversation. Why couldn't he just swallow it, just for a moment? Something down inside - deep, down inside - couldn't stand to see Cameron hurting. But something else down inside found satisfaction in seeing the pain - pain in another's eyes. It was twisted. And it made him a horrible person.

He'd had his share of pain, and if he could dump it back on the world, he would. Sometimes he felt the urge to dump it on Dr. Cameron - make her feel his pain. Just to vindicate himself. It was late at night in his office that insanity crept deep inside, and promised revenge would be sweet - on anyone. On her. But he never imagined it like this - standing in the ladies' locker room, telling her the story of a girl who couldn't be saved. The story of a girl who had to die so that she could live. It was a pain he may never know. One he may never relate to.

But that didn't mean he regretted it. He didn't. And he never would.

Without a word, Cameron ambled away from the exam bed and toward the wooden door. Light on her feet -_ always so graceful_, House noted. He followed her lead and met her outside in the hallway. A passing nurse shot them a look worth a thousand suspicious words. House decided not to dignify the look with a reaction, and he turned to face Dr. Cameron.

This time, it was _her_ avoiding the subject. Refusing to look at House, she started to walk away, assuming he'd be happy to let her. But her caught her arm and said, "Cameron - "

"Let go, House." Her glare was pointed, suddenly sharp. She was angry.

House was taken aback, but he refused to let her free. "I'm trying to talk to you. You're just going to run away, just like that?"

"Wow, does that sound familiar! Deal with your own demons, then we'll talk." She again tried to pull herself free, and he again refused to let her. They were beginning to make a scene, and House wondered if they should have stayed in the locker room after all.

"My demons are irrelevant here, Cameron. We're not talking about me, or even you. We're talking about - "

"_Rachel_," she finished for him, cutting him off. "And that's exactly what I _don't _want to talk about. Now_ let_ . . . _go_." Her glare burned brighter and sharper.

"No, _not_ Rachel," he corrected. "And why don't you want to talk? Bleeding heart one day, Allison's irritable stepsister the next . . ."

"You were there, House! You know why!" She tried to jerk her arm away and House only tightened his grip.

"We went through two different things that night, Cameron. You can't possibly think I'm in tune with whatever the hell is going through your head right now - And would you _stop_ wiggling!" he yelled, quickly growing impatient. "What _is _it with people assuming each of my arms had an infarction as well? Well they didn't! Stop fighting me and I won't have to hold you . . ."

Their quarrel was cut short by the sight of Dr. Wilson. Allison gave up on her protest and her arm dropped like dead weight to her side. House realized he may have been holding her a little too tightly when he pulled his hand away.

"What's going on?" Wilson furrowed his brow, his eyes darting from Dr. Cameron to Dr. House. They were standing there like two guilty teenagers, broken apart by the principal. But they were locked in a staring contest, challenging one another to say something. Challenging one another to run away and ignore this conversation once more.

Blue. His eyes were _so_ blue. They had comforted her that night - given her everything they had to give. They surrendered to her what little innocence they had, and somehow, it wasn't enough.

She wasn't in love with those eyes. She was in love with the idea of love, and blue just painted it pretty. But even paint chipped away, and underneath - it was ugly. That's why Cameron looked away. The ugliness reflected her own soul.

They were _both_ guilty. Her and House both. What had they done? They would be damned for sure.

"A highway patrolman found an abandoned, red Corvette near the Pennsylvania / New Jersey line early this morning. It matched the description I gave. They want me to identify the car," House blurted out. There, he had said it. Cameron could take it how she wanted it. And Wilson could butt out.

Wilson did just that. He immediately knew what they'd been fighting about, and wanted nowhere near this argument. House had relayed to him the events of last Friday - though not in depth - and Wilson couldn't imagine what Dr. Cameron must be going through. Even _he_ couldn't find words of comfort, so he gave House a demanding '_you'd better be careful with her_' look and simply walked away.

Dr. House hadn't taken his eyes off of Cameron. He was studying her reaction. "Would you like to go?" he feigned impatience. It was either that or acknowledge the sadness in her eyes.

"No," was all she said. And with that, she walked away.

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

"_I waited this long. I waited this long to feel I'd made a difference," she sobbed into his shirt. "This long to be freed from the sins of my past. I've done my time." She pushed her mouth away from his chest, still clenching the shirttail at his back, and faced the darkened sky. "I've done my time!" Cameron screamed, tears dripping from her rosy cheeks. _

_House closed his eyes and absorbed the vibrations of her breakdown. His arms held her shaking body and his mind willed him back into yesterday. He's never killed someone before. Not on purpose._

"Knock knock." A sweet voice. It didn't fit the memory.

House opened his eyes and twirled around in his office chair. Dr. Cameron stood smiling bravely in his doorway. It was the same smile Rachel had given him that night. _And I haven't even changed the world yet_, was what she'd said, through that forced and plastered smile.

"Yes." Cameron stated.

"Yes what?"

"You asked me if I'd like to go. Yes, I would."


	5. 5: Stained

**Disclaimer: I do not own House M.D. or any of the characters from the series.**

**Warning:**_ Faint of heart - beware. Faint of stomach - grab a bucket._.

_A/N: Thank you for the reviews. Checking my e-mail isn't so bad anymore_.

**Chapter 5:** **Stained**

House swallowed. He worried his voice would fail him. Even if it did, it wouldn't matter. Nothing at this point could matter. The trees stood still for a moment, and the sky sent a hush through the atmosphere. Memory stood still: haunting him one moment, irrelevant the next. Everything he'd held so important was suddenly so insignificant.

Well, almost everything. Cameron was still beside him, and he knew it more _now_ than ever. Uncanny how a soiled and battered car could put things in such perspective.

"Yeah," his tone was low and unearthly. "That's my car."

He stared. Cameron stared. The policeman - though he'd seen it all before - stared. It was all they knew to do. It was all they had power to do.

"You're absolutely sure?" the cop probed.

House nodded a response just as absently. It was definitely his car. Red, '65 Corvette. Red - through and through. It was red in places it shouldn't be. It was red from the inside out.

A road-dusty hue sprinkled the body of the car. The outside had been slightly mistreated, but nothing too damaged to fix. It was the inside that couldn't be fixed. Blood - the seats, the doors, the floorboards. It wasn't a puddle or a pool. It was splashed and splattered - a fingerprint here and there, telltale hints of a struggle, a desperate hand print on the doorhandle. Imprinted in the juice of life. Forever stained in death.

That night came back to House in a sudden, punishing rush, then fled from his mind just as quickly. It flushed back and forth though his system, like water through a permeable membrane. But it was toxic. It was ruthless. It left his insides rocking and gasping for the very strength to stand. House clenched his cane tighter, and forgot about Cameron beside him. All he could see was her tear-dripped face before him - in a hazy image of a darkened sky and a fast-fading memory of the rain –

_Cameron dropped her arms to her sides. She suddenly refused to be comforted. Just like that - she didn't want to be held. She didn't want to be touched. So House dropped his own arms and looked to the ground for support. _

_If he collapsed right now, would it hurt? If he just let his muscles fail and his limbs fold in on themselves, could he melt and be lost in the pavement? Seep beneath a weathered crack and be buried in this fallow soil forever . . ._

_He limped back to the court and found the abandoned basketball. He didn't pick it up. It was sacred, and he was defiled. But he stood over the lonely sphere - now huddled in a corner of the court - and delivered the dreadful news. He had no one else to tell. _

_That's when he turned to find Dr. Cameron on the other side of the court, holding a flimsy, plastic x-ray sheet between damp and trembling fingers. Perhaps now she realized - Rachel was a hopeless cause. _

_Somehow, he didn't think she'd see it that way._

_The x-ray floated back to the ground, and Cameron went with it. She sat slumped against the chain-linked fence, sweaty knuckles on the ground and an upturned face to the raindrops –_

The rain. It didn't wash away the sin. It wouldn't wash away the blood. They stood staring and cringing on the inside, hoping this was all a dream. House tore his gaze from the backseat of his battered car and slowly turned his head to Cameron.

She was in shock. No tears. Only gaping eyes and a slightly opened mouth. In all actuality, she looked like she was going to throw up. House lifted a hand to awkwardly comfort her shoulder, but immediately, Cameron pulled away from his touch.

His fingers had only graced her, and that was enough to send Cameron into an upheaval. She ran across the road and reached a drainage ditch just in time. Her body went spiraling and her stomach constricted, sending what little food she had eaten to the falsely green grass below. One wave after another squeezed against her organs and demanded her body be emptied.

House watched as she fought with her body, as she begged to be freed of feeling. He wished he could do something for her. That's when he decided he could. And he would.

A week. A whole fucking week. He couldn't watch anymore. He had to do _something_ for her. He had to try, at the very least. Cameron couldn't live like this.

He nodded to the policeman, who nodded to the tow truck driver, and both were sent on their way. House was left standing in the street with Cameron - once again - and dusk was left hovering in a dismal cloud of hopelessness. For the seventh night in a row,_ he_ would watch the sun set; _she_ would watch the earth hide. The sky would turn black and the grass would turn blue. And they'd think of Rachel again. Simultaneously. Ritualistically. Like a morbid tradition that brought them together by linking their unspoken pain.

Though Cameron was always with him - the ache in his leg, the emptiness at night, the shallow keys of his piano (they all bore the name of _Cameron_) - this would be the first night since Friday that House could be with her when the world went away to hide. He was determined to make the most of it.

He limped across the road to where she knelt in the grass, still heaving in a drainage ditch. "Cameron . . ."

Her body went stiff at the sound of his voice. She cautiously breathed, willing away the taste in her mouth, and didn't look up from the grass. "I'm sick."

"I see that," he said. "You're coming home with me."

"No."

"Yes." House bent over slowly and dangled his car keys a distance from her face. He was saying, _I drove you here; I'm currently in control_.

Cameron was too exhausted to put up a fight, and she cursed him out loud to the air. She could feel her stomach cringing again, but there was nothing left to surrender. She had thrown-up all she could.

House was careful not to touch her as she balanced herself and stood. He knew she didn't like it. Now that he wanted to care for her - to do something gentle and kind - she didn't _want_ to let him. One day she would. But tonight he would give what he could.

_A/N: Do not worry. All is not dark and dreary . . ._


	6. 6: Where Home Is

**Disclaimer: I do not own House M.D. or any of the characters from the series.**

**Chapter 6: Where Home Is**

Red light. Green light. Another red light and silence. The silence was thick, the implications disturbing. A bright shade of green against the darkening sky and he stepped on the gas once more. Yellow light ahead. Instead of speeding up, as he normally would, House slowed to a stop and the silence prevailed anew. Disturbing all over again. Perhaps he had hoped it wouldn't be.

Cameron was a motionless body, lying lifeless against the seat beside him. The rental car's interior was like a tiny cabin in the middle of nowhere - even with all the other cars seen buzzing by the windows. It was peaceful, yet confining. It was roomy, yet cramped. They were forced to endure each other's breathing and pretend it didn't hurt.

Cameron kept her face to the road flying by at her right. She was going home with House. He had invited her into his sanctuary. Well, more like forced her. And as many times as she'd rehearsed accepting this invite, the last place she wanted to be now was with him inside his home. But it didn't matter anymore. Nothing did.

House pulled into the parking garage back at the hospital and brought the engine to a still. Cylinders ceased to fire and the car ceased to rumble. Just he and Cameron, and more disturbing silence. His gaze remained fixed on the cement wall straight ahead, and Cameron's remained fixed on the car to her right. Finally,

"Why are we here?" It was almost a whisper. Her voice was so delicate, House was afraid his scruffy voice would break it. Her exhausted face turned from the window and her clear green eyes settled on his blue ones. She was so vulnerable - so sweetly exposed and defenseless.

Yes, she was still innocent, House decided. She had to be. A face like that . . . So angelic. And angels are always innocent.

_Okay, bad analogy_. House shook his head. Satan was probably laughing.

His hand came off the steering wheel to settle awkwardly in his lap. He should probably answer Cameron. _Why are we here?_ He wasn't sure himself. "You don't need to grab anything from inside?"

She felt like they'd switched places, mentally. "You mean from my secret stash of clothing in the lab?" She was going to need more than a jacket and a work bag if she was going to be spending the night.

House ignored the sarcasm. "Do you need anything from your car?"

"I need to get _in_ it and go home."

"Nice try." He opened the driver's door. "I need to grab my bag." He twisted around to retrieve his cane from the backseat. "I'd say, '_I'll be back_', but some things are pretty obvious." House pulled himself to his feet and reached out a hand for the door. Right before he closed it –

"How do you know I'll be here when you get back?" Cameron's rental car was a few rows away. She could easily flee to it and be on her way. House knew this. That's why he parked there. He would give her every opportunity to escape, and when she was still sitting there in the passenger seat of his car, she would know this was what she wanted. She couldn't say House was 'forcing' her. So he gave her a knowing glance and closed the door behind him.

His office was dark and the door was unlocked. He didn't touch the light switch as he entered. Light was overrated. But a lamp at his desk flickered on as soon as he'd grabbed his bag. Two dress-shoe-covered feet was the first thing he saw - propped up on his desk like they owned the place. He followed the legs to the chest, then to the face. A mixture of concern and admonishment was found to be staring back at him.

"Where were you?" Wilson. Who else.

"Agh," House hit his head in mock remembrance, "curfew. Right. See, when you said 'Have the car back by eight," I thought you meant eight in the morning." He pushed Wilson's leg aside with his cane and fished through a bottom drawer. "So, technically, I'm twelve hours early."

Wilson's glare was unrelenting. "I'm not asking about technicalities. Where did you take Dr. Cameron?"

Greg's face immediately turned up to Wilson's and met stubborn stare with defensive one. He would have knocked the oncologist upside the head if he didn't owe him twenty bucks. People tend to remember your debts when you don't feel like being so nice. "You'll have plenty of time to get into her pants on Monday. Don't act like I ruined your night."

"You're a jerk."

"Tell me about it." House looked back to the drawer and reached for his iPod earphones, tugging at the wire to untangle them. "At least I don't try to hide it."

"I'm worried about Cameron. Do you have a problem with that?"

"No." He got the earphones untangled. "No problem." After pulling out the iPod and Game Boy, he shoved the drawer closed with his cane and swung his bag over his shoulder. "Of course, if you'd leave the worrying to me and just go home and mind your business, you wouldn't feel the need to play FBI agent and jump me in my darkened office."

Wilson took note of the iPod and wrinkled his brow in a question. House always left his iPod in the office. "What's up?"

"The opposite of down. Of course, it depends on your frame of reference . . ." House limped to the open door and pretended to contemplate the meaning of '_up vs. down_'. Then he simply gave it a shrug and turned back to Dr. Wilson. "Do turn the lamp off when you leave. I'm trying to score brownie points with the new Energy Conservation Committee." And then he took a step to exit.

"No, House." Wilson put his feet down and hopped up as fast as he could. "You can't just ignore me and hope I'll go away." He took a few long strides to the door and stepped in front of his friend, leaning an arm adamantly across the doorway.

"Why not? It works with everybody else . . ."

"Why are you taking your iPod?"

House took a few hobbles backward. "Okay . . ." he looked to the floor. "How 'bout this: no allowance this week. Since I've been bad and all. Just please - don't take my iPod."

Wilson's features scrunched into concentration as his mind went to work on the puzzle. He was never as good at this as Greg. Then he pointed an accusing finger. "Do you still have Cameron with you?"

House began looking all around him. He dipped his head to look under the desk. He peeked out into the hallway. He even looked at the ceiling. "Hm," he resolved, his eyes still wandering the room. "Well, I _did_. Wonder where she could've gotten off to." He began snapping his fingers near the floor. "Here Cameron!_ Heeeeeeeeere _Cameron!" Two whistles and another snap later: "Ah well. She knows where her home is. She'll come back when she's ready. Either that or when she's hungry." And with that, he removed Wilson's arm with his cane and retreated into the hallway.

_Step-thump. Step-thump. _All the way back to the elevator. The metal doors closed and Wilson shook his head. He knew what Greg was saying: _Cameron may be lost right now, but she'll be back. She'll be okay._

And he hoped Dr. House was right.

**To be continued . . .**


	7. 7: Drink This

**Disclaimer: I do not own House M.D. or any of the characters from the series.**

_A/N: **jeevesandwooster**: I know what you're saying. While I was writing a few of these chapters, I felt the same thing in the pit of my stomach. Because it's real to me. I'm not just playing with my readers' emotions - twisting a knife into their souls for the mere sake of having power to do so. What Cameron and House are experiencing - it's heartbreaking, but it's beautiful. Ultimately. And that's what I hope to portray. Thank you for your words._

_I appreciate my faithful readers. Your reviews make me squeal with glee. (Literally; I think I woke everyone in the house up. It was an accident, really.)_

**Chapter 7: Drink This**

The elevator doors slipped open and House wearily slipped out. Guided only by the midnight oil burning brightly from a nearby office, he dragged himself across the lobby and stopped in front of a water cooler. He looked down. Cane in one hand, Game boy and iPod in the other. His hands were full.

"Darn," he said in mock disappointment, cocking his head to the side. Guess he couldn't get Cameron some water after all. It wasn't very Greg-like anyway. She might think he was being sensitive, or that he_ cared_ . . . or something stupid like that. And besides, his hands were full. He couldn't get the water if he wanted to.

So he turned away.

And then he turned back.

"Darn again." He couldn't stand himself sometimes. Undecided over a cup of water. He made life and death medical decisions almost every day of his life. And now he stood second-guessing himself over a simple cup of water from the cooler. _Just get the water, Greg. She'll probably throw it back at you anyway, and then you can say something sarcastic. It's the perfect cover. _"Nah, not good enough."

He again turned to walk away.

And again, he turned back.

_You're not doing this to be sweet. Cameron just threw her guts up. Medically, she needs to drink some water._ It appealed to his sense of logic. _Exactly. Makes perfect sense. _He stuffed his Game Boy into the bag on his shoulder, then stuffed the iPod in after it. He swallowed his hesitations and reached for a paper cup.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

When he got back to the car, the first thing he noticed upon approaching was that the passenger seat was empty. Cameron wasn't there. Had he underestimated her intentions? He looked through the lighted structure to the place where her car had been parked and . . . her car was still parked there. Just where it had been before. The first thing to hit him was confusion, but the feeling that followed was dread. House felt immediately lightheaded and his heart rate went crazy in his chest.

If something happened to Cameron, he would . . . well, he would add it to the list of things he could never forgive himself for.

But when he neared the driver's door, his dread was replaced with a sweeping sense of relief. A beautiful young woman lay sleeping in the back of his car - snuggled against the seat. For a moment, he forgot that he hated sentimentality, and he stood watching her through the window.

Quietly opening the door, House slid into the driver's side and placed his bag on the passenger's seat, with his cane propped on the floor below it. He rested the cup of water in a holder between the seats. Before starting the engine, he twisted around to look at Cameron. Her back was to his face, and soft brown curls fell over her neck to lay in a pile on the leather seat. House sat in awe. His rental car was suddenly acceptable. In his mind, to be graced by curls like that made any man - or car - indisputably lucky.

Those curls were so inviting. He had to touch one; he just had to. But the angle wasn't right. His fingers would have to wait.

But not for long. Once at his house, he pulled into the shadowed driveway and silenced the whistling engine. He could hear Cameron breathing, heavy and deep. The mere feeling he got from listening made him suddenly nervous. He left his bag in the front, but took the cup of water with him as he opened the door in the back. It was time to wake her up, and he didn't want to be rough or abrupt.

Placing the cup on the hood of the car, House peered down at the girl. Her sweet face and adorable innocence possessed him to turn around and lower himself backwards to sit on the backseat floorboard. This was a new experience. He wasn't sure he'd ever done this. With his feet still out on the pavement, he shifted to get more comfortable and refocused his attention to her hair. A curious hand tenderly made its way to her head and a long finger wound itself into a curl.

House couldn't help but moan. It was a deep, throaty sound of escaping, satisfied air. A touch of a feather to his all-too calloused fingers. Calloused from feeling, and immune to pain. But this pain was beautiful. This girl was magic.

The finger found its way to her neck and, before he could stop himself, he was touching it. Just one finger - just the light brush of it next to her sensitive skin - and Cameron was awake.

Bad electricity. But she was too weak to protest. Her stomach was still unsettled and her head still pounding incessantly. Aching. Throbbing. _Pound. Pound. _Like the ceremonial beat of an Indian drum._ Pound_. Signifying the death of a villager. Black shrouds envelop the village and they mourn for all of three days. Aching, throbbing. It's of no use to fight or deny it. The plague has swallowed her body. Has swallowed her spirit dry.

"Cameron." He knew she was awake. But she refused to look at him. "You're sweating." A strong hand slipped against her jawbone and lingered to absorb her warmth. "You're burning up. Are you having nightmares?"

"House," it was a soft plea, "don't touch me."

He let go. "Roll over."

"My _head_ . . ." Cameron groaned, squinting from the light on the ceiling as she struggled against the seat to roll over. The smell of fresh leather inebriated her nostrils. It was the only thing that eased the pain as she came face to face with House.

He was on eye level with her, cleverly where she couldn't avoid him. He studied her. Eyes so clear, and yet so clouded. Green pools of simplicity, yet so full of dying life. He wanted to dive right in. Swim while the sun was down, and still be lost in the morning. "Sit up."

More squinting and more struggling. She was finally back to a seated position and House pulled himself up to join her. A brief step outside the car to retrieve the cup from the hood, and he was back and at her side again. "You need to drink something," he extended the water in her direction.

"No thanks."

"You got the '_thanks_' right, but the '_no_' is unacceptable. Take the cup."

And she obeyed. Maybe it was the headache. She didn't want tolisten tohim any more than she had to. One sip of the water and she winced - every muscle cringing in peristalsis, attacking the newly-found substance.

Obviously, House couldn't carry her, so she had to get out of the car. And somehow, she managed to. House was there to help her - to catch her if she fell - and that's exactly what motivated her to continue standing on her own. Forbid that she shouldfeel the warmth of his arms around her and find herself breathing into his chest. Never again.

She didn't deserve warmth. Or comfort. Or strength to hold her steady.

House unlocked the front door and ushered Cameron in. His number one priority was getting her something to eat. To make her warm, give her comfort, and steady her mind and body. She needed her strength back, and if he could give her that, just maybe he could move on to the rest. He could giver her what she really needed.


	8. 8: Everywhere You Look

**Disclaimer: I do not own House M.D. or any of the characters from the series.**

_A/N: **Belligerent-road-pylon**: Scallyoob. Yes, has a nice ring to it. ( – blows on knuckles and wipes against chest – ) Positively scallyoob. Why, thank you. :) _

**Chapter 8:** **Everywhere You Look**

As House was closing the door, he could already see it happening. But it was too late. His once-razor-sharp reflexes were now severely lacking, and Cameron hit the floor with a 'bang' just as the door latched softly closed. House threw his bag down and dropped to the glossy oak beside her, putting all the weight on his good leg and using his arms to steady him.

"Cameron," he patted her cheek. She didn't respond. Using the wall for support, House pushed himself back to his feet and limped through the living room to the kitchen. He wet a rag with cold water, then hurried to return to her side. With his back against the wall, he slid all the way to the floor and struggled to pull Cameron closer.

Her face was colorless, her eyelids heavy. And she was drenched again in sweat. House straightened Cameron's limp and lifeless body, and brought her head up to rest on his lap. Brushing back the strands of hair that were sticking to her neck, he applied the wet rag and began dabbing it across her skin. The calculating side of his brain went blank as the instinctive side took over. His hands performed without thought, working flawlessly - with the instinct and art of a surgeon.

He blew on her skin where he'd left a trail of water, and continued gently wiping her face. _Across the forehead, down the nose. _She did have a beautiful nose._ Fall to the side, trace a cheek, blow on a delicate ear. Over the jawbone, over the curve of her neck. _It was a rhythm he wasn't used to. A sad song he'd long forgotten. But he knew what he was doing - like he'd done it all before. Maybe he had, in a life long ago. In a world he'd also forgotten.

A moan; she opened an eye. House didn't stop with the rag. And he didn't speak; only patted. Dabbed. Brushed, and stroked. Painted a pretty picture and imagined it coming to life.

The first thing Cameron saw was the ceiling, and the second thing she saw was blue. The pastel eyes of the painter. He was peering over her with concern on his face, and his left leg was under her neck. She felt it twitch. She felt his body jarring with the subtle movements of his arm. He was patting her face, and cool air was seeping through her pores.

House regarded her exhausted expression and met her eyes with his own. A shade of turquoise passed between them as blue settled deep into green. He moved a hand to the top of her shirt and Cameron did nothing to stop him. Unbuttoning the first two buttons, House parted the fabric with a thumb and finger and slipped the cold rag down her chest. Cameron closed her eyes. He removed the rag and blew a tender breeze down her shirt.

Cameron was falling away as soon as she felt his hand on her forehead. Three strong fingers to her right temple, one strong thumb to her left. They gradually tightened in toward her throbbing headache, and everything drifted away.

The hard, wooden floor went suddenly soft, and Cameron melted into it. She melted into House's leg. And she melted into his hand. Long, lazy, circular strokes - his articulate fingers massaged her. Massaged away her hurt, her fear, all knowledge of her painful existence. She didn't open her eyes; purity only lives in the dark. And this moment, for now, was pure. Hypnotizing - it felt so good. And that's when she remembered:

She wasn't allowed to feel good.

She groaned. "House, don't – "

"Don't take care of you? Why not? You're certainly not taking care of yourself." His voice was soft, but pointed. He was inwardly angry with Cameron for letting it get this bad. "When is the last time you ate something?"

It took a moment to register the words. Then another to come up with the answer. "Today . . ."

"Reassuring, to say the least. I take it you were never a telemarketer." His fingers continued massaging. "_When_ today?"

She felt House's other hand make its way to the top of her head, and his fingertips graced her hairline. Cameron could feel her head impulsively rolling to the side, bringing her face closer to House's stomach. He was massaging her to sleep, and she secretly hoped this was a dream. One she'd never have to wake from. She could die right here under his elusive hands and never have to face tomorrow.

House could see that she was falling asleep on his lap. And he wanted to let her. He wanted to feel her heat on his leg as she drifted off to oblivion - as she took his mind and his spirit with her. To be anonymous and past the point of care - care for the trivial, the material, the ever-existent burden of consciousness - there was nothing more freeing in the world. And he wanted it. He wanted it with Cameron.

But he shook himself free of the blissful idea and concentrated on the issue at hand. "You _didn't_ eat today, did you?"

She rocked her head back and forth in a '_no_'.

"You should be aware by now that lying to me is useless." House's fingertips stopped moving, much to the chagrin of Cameron. Much to the chagrin of himself . . .

He stripped himself of his jacket and slipped a hand under Cameron's head. Removing his leg from underneath, he replaced the space with his balled-up jacket and went to find the girl some food. He hated to leave her on the floor, but she was obviously too weak to stand.

"I'd say '_Don't move_', but – "

"_Some things are pretty obvious_," she finished the sentence for him, relaxing against his jacket.

Cameron's eyelids were closed, and House took the opportunity to smirk at her. Continuing on toward the kitchen, he called back, "I'm not _that_ predictable, Cameron." A cupboard was opened and a can of soup pulled out. "I was actually going to say, that you probably couldn't move if you wanted to. You seem ever so slightly comfortable."

She didn't hear him. She wasn't listening.

_Her face to the rain, her fists to the ground - the only thing she felt was regret. A surreal sense of pain that wasn't properly registering. Her mind was in shock. Her soul was in shambles._

_That x-ray beside her foot - it meant something. Surely it meant something. That Rachel was supposed to die? That a sixteen-year-old had to close her eyes and accept something that couldn't be fixed? Something broken and wrong. Something cruel. _

_Disease may appear to be the culprit, but the only culprit was Cameron. She had robbed Rachel of the one thing the teenager had left to hope for. She had robbed her of a dignified death. Cameron was the chosen hostage. It was her that should have been in that car. It was her that should be praying at this very moment to a God she never knew. _

_But instead she was here on the pavement, crying to the merciless night, begging an unknown entity to take this all away. Broken. That's what she was. Not Rachel. Not House. It was her. And she was guilty. Her hands were stained in red._

"Hey," Cameron heard through her reverie. "It's not polite to fall asleep during a conversation. Even if it is a one-way." House was standing over her, peering down with a curious face. He tilted his head, pondering the glow in her eyes. _The light on the ceiling. _He reached over and turned a switch, dimming all the lights in the house. He was concerned for Cameron's headache. He looked back down. "Where'd you go?"

"Far away . . ." she whispered, more to herself than to House.

He wasn't sure what to say. "Right. Well, this bird's-eye view does wonders for the imagination, but we need to get you up. You can't eat laying down." He braced himself on the wall and held out a hand for her taking. "Well, you probably can, but your esophagus would forever hate you."

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Hours later - the smell of leather once again in her nostrils - Cameron found herself more relaxed than she had been since everything happened. Since before she stopped deserving it. Sometimes she felt that House was the cause of her pain. But tonight she felt that pain only existed without him. With a warm leg against her head and a soft blanket against her cheek, she felt strangely that peace wasn't so far away. That it was almost within her reach. House was like a drug to her system - blissful, barren and wrong. He was freeing and confining at once.

House had fed her and commanded her to drink some water. And surprisingly, she'd kept it all down. Images of a little, red Corvette - bloody and forever-stained - had seemed to drown in the warmth of her chicken noodle soup, and they faded to a lesser magnitude the longer she lay there relaxing.

He was sitting on the couch - the TV down low, the lights down lower, and the remote control in his hand. He made sure to _keep_ it in his hand, so he wouldn't be tempted to touch her. To stroke her hair. To massage her temples. To run his fingers down her beautiful cheek. She was curled up on his couch - her head against his leg. He would call it _snuggling,_ but that would be presumptuous. And irresponsible. And - even worse - true. He wasn't ready for that.

But sooner or later, he would _have_ to be ready. Cameron would want to know _why_ - why he did what he did. And he would have to tell her. Oh, sure - he could say that Rachel was a dying teenager, and that Cameron was a healthy, young woman. That one was meant to live and the other meant to die. He could easily justify his actions using medical terms and abstract words that would mean nothing to Cameron tomorrow. And it would be right. Completely right.

But this wasn't right and wrong. This was Cameron. And she was a grey area if he ever saw one.

He turned off the TV and laid the remote aside - a classic example of mindless impulse overriding rational brain waves. He wanted his hands to be free, unoccupied, available for other things. He wanted to be restless as he watched the girl beside him breathing. He wanted to remember what it felt like to fall away into the lonely soul of another.

He wanted to touch her and heal her and rub his aching body against her. And he still couldn't figure out why. He didn't love her; he didn't _know_ her. But he wanted her. He wanted so badly to need her.

Cameron let out a tiny sigh, and House could have sworn he felt it vibrate though his leg. "Are you comfortable?" he whispered, hoping she was actually asleep.

"No," she returned the whisper.

House was confused. She certainly appeared to be comfortable. "_Physically_, are you comfortable?"

Cameron was quiet. And that's when House understood.

"It's okay to feel okay," House asserted in a low and gravelly voice. "It's not against the law."

"_Whose_ law?"

"Mine." His tone was still soft. "Who the hell else's?"

"I'm not sure there is anyone else . . ." she slurred the words in her relaxation.

House picked up on her drowsy state. Content with himself, he smirked. "I guess that's a 'yes' on the _'comfortable' _thing." He leaned forward to look at her face - glowing angelically in lamplight from across the room. Her eyes were closed, and her lines were softened.

Very carefully, he braced his hand on the arm of the couch and pulled himself to his feet. He couldn't help it; she called out the best in him. She unburied things he'd buried long ago. Lowering himself to the floor, he leaned his right side against the couch and stretched his right leg out before him. His face now less than a foot from hers, he could actually feel her breathing.

Cameron opened her eyes. She could feel his breathing as well.

"You don't like me any more," House stated. He wasn't looking for an answer.

"Do you have a fetish with the floor?" she whispered lazily. "That's three times now today."

"Apparently so. There's just so much of it. Everywhere you look - floor. It's irresistible." His face moved closer to hers. She didn't move away.

"Some people say the same thing about the sky," she breathed.

"And what do you say to that?"

"That it's not the sky. It's the ceiling."

"When you're outside?"

"Ceiling."

Her airy response tickled lightly on his lips. His mouth was six inches from hers, and he ventured to move it closer. "That can be very confining."

"Better to know your boundaries than to be shocked at the invisible fence." Shock was the right word. Definitely. Her respiration was turning shallow.

"Can't be shocked if you're not wearing the collar." His eyes drifted down to her neck. "And I don't see a collar anywhere on you."

"It's there."

"You've been shocked once or twice yourself."

"Once or twice . . ." She braced herself for what was about to happen. He was getting closer. Closer. Cameron didn't think; only parted her lips in anticipation. She closed her eyes.

House closed his own eyes. And he parted his lips. Closer . . .Closer. So slowly. So hesitantly. This was wrong. This was right. This was _insane_. He could taste her hot breath in his mouth, and for a moment, he lingered there. Imagining all the things he could do, if only he was a better man.

He pulled away from what might have been - just as slowly, just as hesitantly. Scooting himself backward on the carpet, he situated his face near her stomach. It was one continual gesture. He pulled himself up to his knees - resting all the weight on his good leg. His pinky finger curled around the edge of the blanket draped over her body and moved it subtly aside. A calloused fingertip to the bottom of her blouse, and the material drifted upward. He leaned his face in.

His delicate hand touched the side of her stomach, and his lips were soon to follow. Upon initial contact, he evoked a moan from Cameron. She hadn't been prepared. It wasn't really a kiss - it was more of a suggestive touch. Skin to sensitive skin.

He trailed his whiskers to her belly button, and a sound escaped his own throat. He was lost. Her touch was simply unbearable.

That's when the phone rang and both House and Cameron jumped.


	9. 9: Silence

**Disclaimer: I do not own House M.D. or any of the characters from the series.**

**Chapter 9: Silence**

At first, House didn't budge from his position. He was quite content to stay on the floor, with his mouth next to Cameron's stomach. His brain told him to move; his lips told him to stay. They were warring with each other, and it seemed that his lips were winning. Though he did nothing at all to acknowledge it. He didn't back up; he didn't move forward. Just sat there as the ringing continued.

It had been so clear a moment ago that his scruffy face belonged on her stomach. He could have melted at Cameron's sharp inhale when his lips had met her pliable skin. His lips were soft - the softest thing about him - but Cameron's skin was definitely softer.

That damn phone.

His fingers slid off of her stomach and he covered her back up with the blanket - like re-wrapping the paper on a present he'd always wanted. Pulling himself to his feet, House fought back the taste on his lips and grabbed the ringing phone from the end table.

He glanced at the clock on the VCR; a red _9:16_ glanced back at him. Red. Always red. He squeezed the phone tighter and allowed himself to get angry. Right as he was about to throw it across the room, his curiosity got the best of him, and he moved his thumb to the 'talk' button. He felt that Cameron must be watching him, but he made not attempt to confirm it.

Pressing the button and bringing the phone to his ear, he stood up a little straighter and spoke with an heir of professionalism. "If you'd like to make a call, please hang up, look at the clock, and then rethink your annoying desire."

There was silence on the other end. And then, "I'm calling for Dr. Gregory House," in a deep and sobering voice. A male's voice.

"Ah, hold on." House pulled the phone only a few inches away and then yelled rather loudly across the room, to absolutely no one, "Dr. House! Are you still not here?" Cameron wasn't watching before, but now her eyes were fixed on House and his game of charades with himself. He replaced the phone to his ear. "Dr. House isn't here at the moment."

Again, there was temporary silence. "When can I reach him?" The voice was clearly unamused.

"Tell you what - leave me your name and number and he'll call you back at his personal convenience." When the voice didn't respond to his mockery, House remembered his interruption with Cameron and let it fuel him into further derision. "But Dr. House told me to tell you: whatever you're selling, he either already has one, or he doesn't need one. Unless it's a membership card to the Exclude-Me-From-Your-Call-List Club. And I mean a _legitimate _card. Real plastic and all." He stopped talking for a moment and thought about it. "Gee, how smart would that be? Call people just to annoy them, then try to sell them insurance that prevents you from calling again. Sort of like the mafia, only: cheaper, easier, and more technologically advanced. And who says telemarketing is for high school dropouts who simply can't do any better?"

A long pause took over the line, and House began to wonder if the person was even still there. But his question was soon settled with something he was never expecting.

"This is James Buchanan." The man's deep voice was still steady and sobering. Something resembling sad. "Rachel's father," he clarified.

House had already been preparing his next sarcastic strike when his plan fell completely through. He couldn't even remember what he was going to say to the guy; his system was in that much of a shock. Rachel's _father_? . . . Was calling him now? The father had been the whole reason that Cameron was out there that night. He was the reason she ran to the parking garage and followed House to the ghetto.

"I'm Dr. House," was the only thing he could manage to utter. And then he looked at Cameron, who was looking in earnest at him. She was so faultless and youthful laying there, and he wanted it to last forever. He had fed her and laid her down and made her feel safe and comfortable. And now this? He couldn't stand to ruin it.

So he left the room. He shuffled off to his bedroom and closed the door behind him. "Mr. Buchanan," House addressed.

Cameron's gaze trailed after him as he closed his bedroom door. She had seen the snide, playful image die. Like a kite falling smack to the ground with a sudden loss of the wind - optimism broken. A different cloud had cast its shadow, and House hadn't seen it coming. A storm - something eerie, something dangerous - was passing overhead. Cameron could feel it. She could sense it. She could see it in her perfect recollection of House's pastel-faded eyes.

His phone conversation had amused her, up until the point of his splinter. Some kind of pain was emitted in the moment of his silence, and Cameron didn't wish to dwell on it.

She wanted him back beside her, rubbing his blue-jeaned leg against her sleepy hair. Oh, he would deny it if she accused him, but ever so often while they were together on the couch, House would move from his current position, just enough to reassure himself that Cameron was still there beside him. He needed that physical solace. And as soon as the point of contact between leg and hair became stale, he would feel the need to move again. Refresh the sensation.

And then when he got up and sat down on the floor in front of her, Cameron's heart did a flip-flop in her rib cage. She wasn't expecting to find him so close to her face, but somehow she knew, before she opened her eyes, that his mouth would be calling to hers. And it was. His scruffy jaw line had seemed to seal the deal, and North had pulled South into a molecular bond that was strong enough for a chemical explosion. But when he had gotten to her face, he had lingered, and the heat mixing back and forth between them made Cameron want to scream. She had held her mouth open, waiting for the bomb to drop. It was toxic. It was torture. And then he had pulled away.

Cameron had expected him to run from the situation, but he only ran to her stomach. And he touched it, and his bottom lip caressed it. She was shuddering the entire time, amazed by how good it felt, but shocked by how she was even able to feel it. An entire week worth of cringing and crying and throwing her fucking guts up. She should have been numb - to pain as well as pleasure. But House's lips on her skin sent both pain _and_ pleasure reeling through every inch of her body.

And for every nerve ending that had fired because of his touch, she felt _that_ much worse for forgetting. For forgetting that his touch meant nothing - that its value would be buried with Rachel.

Would be . . . Just as soon as somebody found her.

**To be continued . . .**


	10. 10: Monster

**Disclaimer: I do not own House M.D. or any of the characters from the series.**

_A/N: **Isis915**: Your review made me very happy. I am so glad you're enjoying the story._

**Chapter 10: Monster**

House lay staring at the ceiling, tracing patterns across the darkness with an imagination that wouldn't be still. He traced scenarios; he traced ideas - daydreams that came to life on the boring walls of his loneliness. Slide shows of what might have been. Sheep to help lull him to sleep. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't. Tonight would be no different.

He did it to escape the world with a picture as pretty as his pillow is soft - comfort the fall into oblivion and ignore that the comfort is false. Because a sleeping man doesn't care. Once in that perfect world - the world that lies just beyond sleep - mortality is nothing and these burdens are even less. It was getting there that was the trouble.

If he could get there tonight, he could stay there. Possibly longer than usual.

But tonight he was trying too hard. Pushing thoughts of the phone call aside, he focused his everything on the girl down the hallway. He hoped she was sleeping. He had hung the phone up to find her still on the couch, but she was shaking and shivering and curled against the blanket around her. House was keeping the temperature low to accommodate to Cameron's earlier sweating, but apparently now he was freezing her.

He'd thrown a clean T-shirt at her and pointed her toward the bathroom, telling her to take a hot shower. As she'd stalked off in that direction, he'd stalked off toward his room, and he hadn't seen her since. He knew he should probably check on her, but he didn't want to be too obsessive. After all, she _was_ a grown woman. She could take her own shower and put herself to bed; possibly even tuck herself in. What was left for House?

Sentimentality. That's what. He would end up sitting on the edge of her mattress while wiping stray tears from her cheeks. And as much as he loved those cheeks, he would be in trouble if he touched them again. The first time was painful enough.

And her stomach . . . _Damn, damn, damn_, he shook his head. House couldn't help but groan at the remembrance of how her belly button felt against his jaw. If that phone hadn't rang . . . _Damn_. The image was too much to handle. But that's all it was - an image. Cameron wasn't well; he was taking care of her. End of fucking story.

Yeah right. Nothing was that cut and dried.

A knuckle tapping twice to his bedroom door pried House slowly away from his trance. Like the shattering of something precious and costly, his imagination broke apart and scampered away to hide. Forbid it should be exposed, especially to her.

When he didn't respond to the knocking, Cameron cracked the door open and timidly poked her head inside. "You awake?" she whispered, so quietly that House didn't think she was actually expecting an answer.

"No," he whispered back with his eyes closed.

"Oh," Cameron responded dejectedly. She leaned her head out and began to close the door.

So, she thought she was funny . . . "_Get_ back in here," House quickly amended before she could fully retreat.

Stepping into his bedroom, Cameron closed the door softly behind her. She didn't mean to insinuate anything by it, but House probably took it that way. She thought about reopening the door, just to air out the aura of intimacy that lives in dark, tiny places. But instead she stepped closer to House. "There's a monster under my bed," Cameron finally explained.

House almost smiled at the adorably childish remark, but he fought to compose himself. "Why didn't you kick him in the nose?"

She contemplated his question. "He doesn't have a face." She was telling him something, and it wasn't about a big, purple ogre.

House temporarily froze. That one comment revealed more about what she was feeling than she'd offered to share thus far. _Cameron was afraid of something, and she couldn't defeat it, because she couldn't face it._ Now how was he to respond to that? "Then kick him in the gonads. I hear that hurts."

A short huff of breath - either a smirk or a sigh; it was too dark to decipher which one. "I don't think monsters have reproductive organs."

"You think too much." It was a bizarre thing for Dr. Gregory House to be saying to somebody else. A ruffling sound came from the bed as House slid over and made room beside him for Cameron. "Lay down."

"No thanks."

A game. He just loved games. "Why did you tell me your problem if you didn't want me to fix it?"

"Just . . . wanted to inform you." She stood undecided for a moment, then turned away to leave. She was just close enough for House's arm to reach her, and he swiftly rolled over and caught her wrist in his hand. His large fingers fit all the way around it, and he held on like he wasn't mesmerized by the fact.

Settling back on the bed, still holding her wrist, he closed his eyes and subliminally breathed in unison with the blood pulsing through her veins. _They don't sell this drug on the market. _He knew, too; he had looked. Surprisingly, Cameron didn't fight him. She had probably learned her lesson when she fought him outside the locker room.

After a long time of hearing no response from Cameron, House mumbled, "I'm not letting go. Sleep standing up if you like."

"I don't lie in bed with strange men."

"I could be _normal_ if that's what you want."

This time it was definitely a sigh. She didn't feel much like bantering. "No . . ."

"You're probably right." House firmly kept his grasp in place. "Well, goodnight." And he closed his eyes again, but he wasn't finished talking. "Do you like the name Betsy?"

"What?"

"Betsy. I've always wanted a horse named Betsy."

Cameron was beyond confused. It took her a while, but it finally dawned on her what the hell he was talking about. "I couldn't sleep standing up if I wanted to."

"Probably not. Guess we'll see, though."

She didn't feel like yelling anymore than she felt like arguing, so she gave up and simply stood there. It was the only way to break the man.

The next three minutes were spent in uncomfortable silence as each of them waited for the other to cave. House's arm was starting to tire._ Gosh_, Cameron could be hardheaded when she wanted to be. "Why did you come in here?" he managed to ask without a single glint of sarcasm.

"The monster . . ." she reminded him.

"No, I know about the monster," he said, his voice getting gradually lower. "What's the _other_ reason you came in here?"

"He _was_ the reason."

House stared at her for a minute. She was lying. She was lying to his face. "Must have been one scary monster," he reconciled.

Cameron didn't answer aloud, but she nodded her head in agreement. She wished House would let her go; her wrist was burning with his touch. But, as long as she was standing there, "Who was the call from?"

"Alright. Get the old man some water and he'll take you back to your room."

"House –"

"Yeah, I guess it _is_ supposed to be the other way around. The taker-to-bed-er is the water-getter. However, I'm a backwards kind of guy."

This received an eyebrow raise from Cameron. For the first time, she jerked her arm in an attempt to get away. "Let –"

"Go." He released Cameron's wrist and she stumbled back a step. When she just stood there, shaken a bit by his sudden compliance, House gave her a disapproving gleam. "I'm serious. Go. I need water." What he_ needed_ was a chance to figure out how to tell her. She had asked about the phone call, and he was surprised. He'd thought she would try to avoid it.

"Answer my question first." Great. She was getting a headache again. House had so efficiently massaged it away, leaving the feel of his fingers on her forehead. Now it was back; and this time, House was the cause of it. From pleasure to pain in unparalleled speed. He was the master conductor of a roller coaster she just couldn't seem to get off.

House was abnormally quiet. A soreness radiated from his rib cage as lay there. He looked into her eyes in the dark, and remembered doing the same to Rachel the night he had chosen to kill her. How could he see such aching emotion - such raw purity and passion - and still look away with a justifying hope that right will prevail over wrong? Had it prevailed in this situation?

He had no doubt that it had.

But he still couldn't look at Cameron, knowing that she was a leading advocate for the pain that he felt in his heart. She thought what he did was wrong; she thought what _they_ did was wrong. And her daily pain gave House a misery that he couldn't blame on bitterness. So he had to blame it on devotion.

He couldn't blame it on love. Cameron didn't have his heart; and he would never give it to her.

"Rachel's . . ." he watched Cameron cringe at the mention of the name, ". . . father called." He waited for her to hold up a hand, to halt him before he could continue. But she never did. "Let me tell you in the morning."

"No." Her voice was far away and wispy. She looked up from the carpeted floor. "Just say it," she whispered, because she didn't trust her voice.

So he reluctantly finished. "He said the police station gave him my number. He knows I was there that night . . . with another doctor . . . and he wants to know exactly what happened. Everything we saw, everything Rachel said, everything that happened from the time we got there to the time we walked away."

Cameron was staring at her feet. "The police . . . they didn't," she swallowed, ". . . they didn't tell him all that?"

"They told him what was in the report." House couldn't stand to do this. He wanted to stop. He wanted to tell Cameron to forget it. To tuck her into bed and promise her softly that the morning would sweep this away. "He just wants to hear it from the people who were actually there," House explained.

"Have they . . . I mean . . ." She took a shaky breath to steady her shaking hands. "Any news?"

"They still haven't found her."

Again, Cameron nodded. Absently. Rushing images and rampant regrets flushed through her mind and soul. For the last time today. She couldn't do this anymore. Out of nowhere, she lifted her head and looked into House's face. "You wanted some water?"

He cocked his head in curiosity. Then, tenderly, "No." He had seen something snap in Cameron. And that's when he decided: he couldn't leave her alone tonight. There would be no taking her back to her room. So he pulled the sheets back and sat up in bed, scooting himself toward the headboard. He patted the mattress beside him.

"What?" Cameron looked to the place where his hand was still patting.

"You said you won't lie with strange men. Will you _sit _with them?" Heck - he would _stand_ all night if that's what it took to keep her there in his bedroom.

She didn't respond, so he gently took her hand and pulled her into his bed. Whether the sun would shine in the morning was still up for debate and yet to discover. But there was one thing House knew already: that Cameron would be asleep when it did.

**To be continued . . . **


	11. 11: Helpless

**Disclaimer: I do not own House M.D. or any of the characters from the series.**

_A/N: I apologize if it seems like I'm dragging this story out. I just can't bring myself to move over a scene too fast. I want your senses to buzz with absolutely everything that's going on. _

_To all my readers: thank you for being patient._

**Chapter 11:** **Helpless**

They sat together in uncomfortable silence for longer than either had hoped for. The silence was dark and thick and devastating. It was more intense than talking; it spoke volumes more than pretense or tongue. Thinking and wondering and waiting for the other speak. It felt like the never-ending winter during a hundred-year struggle for truthfulness. A truthfulness that neither was ready for, despite this blizzard of pain blowing around them.

It seemed they had less to say to each other than back when there was nothing to talk about. House bit his lip as he stared at the wall. Cameron kept her eyes on her hands. The air between them floated about as a medium just waiting for words. Waiting to be filled. Waiting to be acknowledged.

House looked over and noticed his T-shirt on Cameron. It was the first time he really saw it. And immediately, House was jealous; it looked far better on her than on him. Then his eyes drifted farther down. "You sleep in your jeans?" There. He had done it. He had broken the unmerciful silence.

Picking at the ring on her finger, Cameron kept her head down and gave him no more than a shrug.

He winced. Cameron was back to avoiding him. "Would you like some shorts?"

Her eyes stayed on her hands as she shook her head.

House furrowed his brow in defeat and returned his gaze to the wall. More silence. More discomfort. More thinking, wondering, waiting. House couldn't wait any longer. He turned back to the girl. "Sheeze, Cameron. This is not working. You have got to unclench or we're both going to be stiff in the morning."

Finally, Cameron lifted her head and slowly turned it to House. "So it's _my_ fault?"

His eyes glued to hers as he wondered what she was thinking. She had taken his comment out of context. He wasn't trying to fault her for _anything_; he was just trying to lighten the mood. And she had thrown it back in his face. Why? Were they even on the same page? Maybe she was asking him something else entirely . . .

Searching Cameron's face for some clue as to what she was feeling, House realized she was holding his gaze. She wasn't looking away; she was intent upon getting an answer. And then he knew. He knew what she was asking.

"No, it's not your fault," he said gingerly. And it wasn't. If anything, it was his.

He leaned his head against the headboard and rolled it to face the wall. He closed his eyes and breathed. Just breathed. Tried not to think. Tried not to wonder. Tried not to hurt inside.

Cameron allowed her eyes to fall from House's scruffy face, and she followed his example in closing them. She leaned against the headboard and tried to relax her muscles. Tried to relax her mind.

They were both tired. Of everything.

The world was far too stressful for Cameron to stick around any longer, so she didn't even venture to try. Her respiration shallowed and she immediately drifted away.

As soon as he heard the peaceful, steady rhythm of Cameron's breathing, House reopened his eyes and took advantage of the opportunity to examine her. She was distraught. Even in her sleep, her muscles were tight, and each of her fists were clenched in a ball. Her neck was contorted and her head was beginning to fall. She looked incredibly tense and uncomfortable.

House took the cue and reached over her to turn on the lamp. He clicked it just once and a soft, warm glow cascaded over the walls. It splashed over Cameron's falling face, and sprinkled her features with color. A tiny, silver glint reflected from her necklace as House jostled the bed with his movement.

He sat there for a moment, just staring. Captivated - once again - by the sight of a sleeping woman. There was something about it that stirred him. Made him erratic and erotic and unstable all at once. His chest swelled with pride and pain. His body with unquenchable desire. His mind with the calm of her presence.

There was no middle ground when a man sat staring at a beautiful, sleeping woman. It's either in or out - stay or go. Hold back or risk it all.

_Magic eight ball, magic eight ball. Why did I leave you at the office?_ But he didn't need its guidance. He had already made his decision. And it was just as clear now as it was yesterday and the day before. The only difference was that now, he had a chance to act on it.

He wrapped one hand around Cameron's back and the other around her neck, pulling her away from the headboard and sliding her down the mattress. Once he got her flat on her back, he straightened her neck and laid her arms at her sides, then he tenderly unclenched her fists. Her palms were clammy with tears of perspiration; they cried for Cameron when she couldn't. House took them in his own palms and wiped away the sweat on his shirt. Wiped away the tears on himself.

Careful not to strain his leg, he moved closer to Cameron and straddled her just above her knees. At once, his thigh began burning, and he reached to the floor for his pants. After downing a couple of Vicodin, he placed the pill bottle on top of the night stand and brought his attention back to Cameron. _Jeans. No one can sleep in jeans. _Well they can, but it's never comfortable. All those lines and seems and pockets. And Cameron's jeans were tighter than most.

Touching the button at the waist of her hiphuggers, House looked up to her precious face. He wanted to make sure she wasn't going to slap him as soon as he got to work. But her eyelids remained closed and her lashes stayed resting on her cheeks. She was far too out of it to know or care that House was unzipping her pants.

With steady fingers, he opened the two flaps of fabric and began peeling the pants down her hips. He soon realized that this wasn't as easy as he'd imagined. In order to get the jeans to Cameron's thighs, her body had to be slightly lifted. And there was no way House could do that. He would need a couple more hands, at the least.

Biting his lower lip, he mulled over the situation. He could always leave the pants alone, but that wasn't a preferable option. So he decided to take his chances. Rocking forward onto his hands, House held himself in a halfway pushup over Cameron's sleeping body. "Lift up," he whispered gruffly into her ear. Then he rocked back onto his knees and, amazingly, Cameron complied. This meant one of two things: either she was awake, or she could hear in her sleep. Whichever the case, she was aiding his cause, and couldn't hate him for his actions in the morning.

House's heart beat just a little bit faster as he eased Cameron's jeans over her perfectly formed rear and to her thighs. He gently pushed her hips back down to the mattress and prepared to unwrap her sweetness. And he would do it slowly. Savor each and every nuance. Sliding the material over her soft, graceful skin, he tried not to get too distracted. But Cameron had remarkable legs. Very taut and warm and . . . _kissable_.

_Oh damn_. House felt himself falling even before it happened. But he couldn't stop. It wasn't just his mouth; it was his entire being that was drawn to her. His heart and his stomach and his brain and his soul. His very organs - his blood - in his body obeyed a magnetic pull that was too strong to fight or deny. It overwhelmed him and pushed him forward, leaving his will in a daze.

He pressed his lips into the center of her thigh, right above the edge of her blue jeans, and dissolved against the taste. _Oh . . . Too much. Too, too much. _The sensation on his mouth was agonizing. He closed his eyes and let the world spin over him. Let it stomp him to the ground, beat him to bruises, and leave him dry and wanting. It robbed him and drained him and forced him to surrender everything. _Everything_.

He had nothing left. And he didn't want any of it back.

House lifted his lips from the sweet spot, only because he had to. He couldn't stay there. But he found himself going down for another kiss just as soon as he'd pulled away. He couldn't stay off of her either. This was not good. Part of House wanted to stop, but he was no longer in control. It was a terribly wonderful feeling. His mouth met Cameron's skin in beautiful kiss after kiss, each one slow and gentle.

But he didn't want to take advantage of her, so he got back to her jeans and pulled them over her feet. He ran his fingers just as lightly as he could all the way down her legs, caressing her into a deeper, safer sleep.

She trusted him - wholly, fully. Whether she knew it or not.

He blew on her legs and arms - and in the center of her palms - making her nice and cool. Then he covered her with the bed sheet and laid himself back beside her. Leaning on his elbow, he wondered what had gotten into him. He couldn't think straight, he was so entranced.

His face moved closer to Cameron's, and he breathed on her cheek with a breath of life he never even knew he had. Keeping his eyes on her face, he moved a hand to the lamp and darkness poured over the room once again. One more kiss in the crook of Cameron's neck, then he rolled over to lay on his back. The ordeal had left him helpless. It was something he never thought possible. In five years of living with a crippled leg, he had never felt so debilitated as he had just moments ago. That swirl of color and emotion - it was more remorseless than anything he had ever experienced.

His own exhaustion crept deep inside and his eyelids drifted closed.

**To be continued . . . **


	12. 12: Empty

**Disclaimer: I do not own House M.D. or any of the characters from the series.**

**Chapter 12: Empty**

_A car. A faceless driver. A dark interior. Six dark windows and an even darker reason for the silence. _

_Lights on the dash and lights falling away in the background. Flashing red and blue lights burned in the back of your retina. Don't look back. Don't remember. Don't acknowledge the pain. Leave the image of a squad of cop cars to plague someone else in the morning._

_Dark trees and dark houses drifting by on the right. Don't look at Cameron. There's nothing you can do. It's over. It's in the past. Though the past two hours will shadow you for the rest of your life. 'Til you're thrown in the grave and a solemn, grey tombstone is the only shadow left. _

_A cage of metal before you, like you're some kind of murderous criminal. You look at your hands. They're free. Something tells you they shouldn't be. No handcuffs, no metal. No cold, hard punishment for your deeds. Just the backseat of a cop car and Cameron's nervous breathing beside you._

_It's eerie how you know this will haunt you. It's funny how you don't really care._

_The car stops moving and Cameron gets out. Never looking back. Never giving you that one simple glance that'll make this all okay. You shouldn't leave her alone tonight, but you're forced to watch her walk away. Her figure disappears and you're moving once again. Moving toward a lonely haven. A sanctuary most unholy._

House opened his eyes with a startle as a shudder coursed its way through his body. That night was never far from his dreams; that girl - never far from his thoughts. They simultaneously attacked his existence every time he let down his guard.

In his sleep. Always in his sleep.

_Cameron_. Never again would he watch her walk away. In real life _or_ in his dreams. Next time he'd walk away with her. They'd escape together into nothingness, and live there forever and always. He wouldn't have to pretend anymore. He wouldn't have to hide behind the beautiful blue in his eyes.

House was ever aware of the fact that Cameron was in bed beside him. He hadn't forgotten her presence. And it gave him a certain comfort, as well as a certain fear. He refrained from turning over and gracing her face with his eyes; forbid _she_ should be looking at _him_. So he lay as still as he could, pretending to be asleep, listening for a sign of peacefulness that only a new day could bring Cameron.

But he didn't hear one. He didn't even hear her breathing. All he heard was his own inner turmoil in the form of his own shaky breathing.

Rolling over as quietly as possible, he focused his eyes on the warm spot where he'd tucked Cameron in last night. It was empty - and in more than one sense of the word. An empty feeling arose from the imprints that Cameron's warm body had hollowed. No longer a beautiful, sleeping woman; just a pillow, a sheet, and blankets. They had lost their magic quality.

House assumed she had just gone to pee, but when she didn't come back in the next few minutes, he began to think she'd returned to the guest room. Glancing at the clock on his night table, he noticed it was early morning. _5:43._ Much too early for Saturday, and even earlier for House to be getting out of bed and conducting a search for Cameron.

He reached across the bed and latched onto the edge of the mattress, pulling himself to the other side. It wasn't as warm as he'd expected. It was actually rather cold. Peering down to the carpet, he noticed Cameron's jeans were gone. He had dumped them on top of his own jeans last night, and now only _his_ jeans were left. _Maybe Cameron got mad when she woke to find her pants on the floor? _Great.

Setting a foot on the carpet and dragging his other leg with him, House pulled the warm covers aside and griped when he stood to his feet. _Vicodin. _It could wait. He needed to see if Cameron was safe. _Girl fist; then pills_. It was way too early for this.

Approaching Cameron's bedroom - huh, _Cameron's _bedroom - House prepared himself to face her, and found he was feeling slightly nervous. He hoped - with everything in him - that Cameron had been asleep last night during his momentary lapse of judgement.

The door was wide open and he peeked his head inside, only to realize that the word _empty_ was all-encompassing. Just a pillow, a sheet, and blankets. And no magic quality in the air.

He stepped back into the hallway. "Cameron?" No answer. His feet were getting chilly. He was too old for hide-and-seek. _Never a dull moment with that girl._ "Cameron!" Limping back to his bedroom, his eye caught the top of his night table, and it wasn't the clock this time.

_At once, his thigh began burning, and he reached to the floor for his pants. After downing a couple of Vicodin, he placed the pill bottle on top of the night stand and brought his attention back to Cameron. _

His pill bottle. It wasn't there. "Oh . . . Shit . . ." He rushed with an accentuated hobble to the floor in front of his night stand, hoping the bottle had simply fallen off and rolled up under the bed. When he didn't find it there, he scrambled through the pockets of his jeans and came up with the same results.

He was suddenly struck with a bolt of red lightening that tore his insides to shreds. Cameron was gone. His pills were gone. And who knows where the hell they went.

"Cameron!" he ran through the house - like he hadn't done in years - yelling the name of a woman and hearing the godforsaken echo bouncing off of every wall. Slapping him hard in the face. Laughing again at his slippery fingers - at his fickle stone of a heart.


	13. 13: Freedom?

**Disclaimer: I do not own House M.D. or any of the characters from the series.**

**Rating: **This chapter may lean more toward an M rating for some people. It depends on your personal conviction. I still think it's T.

_A/N: I apologize for taking so long to update. I had to go to Charlotte, NC for the weekend and didn't get back 'til a few hours ago. So the majority of this chapter was written in a hotel room at three o'clock in the morning._

_Disclaimer 2: No offense intended toward anyone with a Southern / Western drawl._

**Chapter 13: Freedom?**

It was the longest drive he'd ever taken. The most rigid stairs he'd ever climbed. The hardest he'd rapped on anything with his knuckles since before he was awarded a cane. When all else failed, he couldn't even get the stupid key in the stupid hole in the door, without shaking from worry and pain.

"Cameron?" Hollow reverberations, signifying wasted breath. "Cameron!" _Echo_, like it doesn't hurt him. _Echo_, like it doesn't rip at his soul and scream that he's all alone. Just four more slaps to the face:

_Stained . . . Helpless . . . Empty . . . Silence. _

One for every white-painted wall surrounding his frantic yelling. Emphasized by the lonely overtones. Different walls this time, but walls were the only variable. Pain was forever the constant.

_A little, white tablet in the palm of one hand  
__All her hopes and her dreams in the other  
__She's crouched in a corner  
__She's afraid to stand  
__You were too scared to tell her you love her_

"Damn you, Cameron! _Damn_ you!" He opened a door. He slammed it shut. He kept moving down an empty hallway. "This is what you think you deserve? This is what you think is _right_!" He barged into the bedroom. Just another pillow. Just another sheet. Just another wad of blankets. "Don't swallow them _all_, Cameron. Leave enough for me!" It was the voice of _betrayed_ speaking now. "You _are_ a murderer - and you're killing me!" _Echo,_ treason is righteous? _Echo_, if only he knew.

_What have you done  
__What have you said  
__What made her cry  
__All alone in her bed_

He'd always thought she was the golden girl, but she was no more than another _him_. Joining the ranks of deception - gashing another human being and imagining he won't feel a thing. She was gashing him; she was destroying him. A poignant payback of his own medication. If only it could drown the pain.

_She'll close her eyes  
__She'll count to ten  
__And then you can't hurt her  
__Ever again_

A ring. It was piercing. It was shrill. It was unwanted and unwelcome, and only reminded him of yesterday. Another daughter-less father, demanding to know the truth. But truth was clearly intangible. An abstract idea in a sea of assumptions that leads to who-knows-where.

He didn't believe that. He never had.

Limping to the phone, he cursed every step, and hated himself all the more. Dr. Cameron may find it depressing, but House found it fuel for his rage. A rage that would one day implode and destroy his very shell of a core. Possibly soon. Possibly very soon.

The phone was torn from its cradle. "What!" House shouted at a world that was all too brave. Brave enough to disturb his search for the one thing that kept him alive.

Dead silence resounded through the speaker.

"House?"

". . . Wilson?"

"What are you doing in Cameron's apartment?"

"I'm . . . She left her keys – What are _you_ doing _calling_ Cameron's apartment?" He hid his worry with an agitation he hoped was fairly plausible. It was an emotion less dangerous, an emotion less true. An emotion he couldn't fake forever.

"I mean, I know she was with you last night, but I was so sure you'd take her back to – "

"Answer the question!"

"Damn, House. I was just calling to see how she took it . . ."

"Well how do you _think_ she – Took what?" Took _it_?

"The . . . you know . . . well . . ."

"Wilson, a sleepy, intoxicated Texan could get a sentence out faster than you."

"How she took the news, House. I just called to see if she was okay."

"The _news_ . . . Specificity isn't your strong suit. "

"Stop being an ass and hand the lady the phone."

House tried to open his mouth. Tried to keep the sarcastic comments flowing and filling, and freeing his tortured soul. The way he saw it, as long as he could block the world with his lineup of biting remarks, he was free - free to refuse to care, free to ignore the trivial, free to never be associated with life and love and regret.

But there was no freedom like the freedom found in bondage - the freedom of being able to accept. The freedom of knowing your boundaries and being happy to frolic inside of them. And this - he couldn't accept. He forever refused to frolic.

He wasn't free. He was enslaved to his own bitter tears - tears he would never release no matter how hard they pushed and pulled. Tears whose salty redemption could heal his infected wounds. If only he would let them fall . . .

He was the slave and the master. The whipped and the whipper. The beggar at the gate and the rich man with the keys to the palace. He held himself captive - day in and day out. Half of him stood waiting for deliverance from the dark; the other half - he'd lost long ago.

"House . . ."

If he could find Dr. Cameron, maybe he could find himself. Maybe he could try, at the least. He had to find her. He _had_ to. "What?" The edge was gone from his voice. Only the truth was left. A truth he would never know or understand in the realm he was sentenced to live in.

"Oh." Wilson sighed. "For once I thought you'd actually done something I asked. _Please_ hand the lady the phone?"

"Cameron isn't here . . ." No emotion. No detachment. Just air. Air and sound and a distant longing for something real and touchable.

"You ran her out of her own apartment?"

"I woke up in my bed, and she wasn't there . . ."

"_Should_ she have been?" His tone held a hint of amusement.

"And neither was my Vicodin."

"So, Cameron refused to indulge your fantasies, and your Vicodin walked away. Seems you've had one heck of a morning." Then he paused. Sudden realization smacked him between the eyes. "Oh. _Oh_ . . ."

"'_Oh'_ doesn't begin to cover it. _Strike me dead now and spare me the horrible ending, _maybe. But not _'oh'_."

"So, Cameron_ did_ hear the news, or she _didn't _hear the news?"

"What NEWS!"

Wilson was dumbstruck. He was so sure House would have known by now. Hadn't he received a phone call? "Channel eight."

Immediately, House understood. "Oh no."

"I can't believe you lost her, House."

"I didn't _lose_ her. She ran away."

"And why do you think that is?"

"I don't know. You tell me. You tell me why she won't let me touch her - why she can't stand me all of a sudden. You tell me why she hates my guts for saving her freaking life!"

"Saving her life?" Wilson gasped. Apparently, House hadn't told him the entire story of what really happened that night. "Saving her life from what?"

The hush of the two men breathing became the only sound on the line.

"_Leave us here, and take the Corvette," House's voice was gentle and cautious, pleading. "We have no phone and no transportation, so you can't be followed."_

"_And the girl?" he demanded._

_House looked from Cameron to Rachel, then back to Cameron. His breath caught in his chest. "Which girl?" _

_An evil, torturous grin crept across the gangster's face. "You tell me." _

_All he had to do was say the words. _

"_Take her," House pointed a sloppy finger at the sixteen-year-old, clutching his cane and refusing to look his young 'victim' in the eyes. He looked at the ground, at the rain puddle gathering near his feet. _

_This sin would not be forgiven. _

"House?"

"You're right." He was suddenly far away. "I wasn't saving her life. I was saving mine."

The phone was returned to its resting place and the remote control was located. He didn't have time for this. He didn't have time to be watching TV when, for once in his life, he was needed - for something other than a medical mystery. Life and death - he'd assumed - had always been black and white. Never a rainbow of color. Never meant to be.

But his convictions were dying. All of them.

Life was a purple haze, and death was a dwindling sun. A sun now setting and casting dull shadows out across a barren land. Once it got beyond the skyline, there was no hope of getting it back. The skyline was any man's limit.

_Take a deep breath  
__Release it slow  
__Kiss the sky  
__One last time  
__Right before you go_


	14. 14: I Have the Keys

**Disclaimer: I do not own House M.D. or any of the characters from the series.**

**Rating: **This chapter may lean more toward an M rating for some people. It depends on your personal conviction. I still think it's T.

_A/N: If you have _**not **_read Not As All Seems, this chapter will mean nothing to you. All of the italics below are from Not As All Seems - from that fateful night in the ghetto._

**Chapter 14: ****I Have the Keys**

_She kissed the sky. "I'm not afraid to die . . . I'm not afraid to die."_

Cameron stepped from the parked cab and cautiously peered around. It was just as her dreams had remembered. While closing the bright yellow door, she had flashbacks of closing a white one - the white and black door of a cop car. Then flashbacks of the night when a dangerous man had forbiddingly closed a red one.

_The last living glimpse of Rachel came as she threw her hands out to stop the car door from slamming, from sealing her certain death. "Change the world for me!" she called out toward the sobbing huddle of Cameron in House's arms. Then the stone was rolled over the tomb and the car sped out of sight._

House wouldn't let her watch. But the echo in her mind of those struggling sounds was worse than any image could render. She remembered how calm the sixteen-year-old had looked, right before she was dragged away. Right before House had allowed her to be; right before Cameron messed up.

_Rachel stepped forward. Cautious, but defiant. She channeled everything this moment would mean - everything it would mean a month from now when she was gone. This neighborhood; this stupid, screwed-up life; this vision of greatness and aspiration to change the world - it all came rushing, mercilessly, and a clarity so profound bound her captive. Or maybe loosed her free. _

Only a week had passed. Only one short week. Yet Cameron already knew the meaning of all that had happened - on that night that had chosen her fate. It was so clear in this moment, and her heart cried for final conclusion.

_Her mind was spinning, and the flood gates were opening. All her numbing soul could feel was a cry of soothing undulance, a rhetorical meter . . . a poetic prose that she couldn't control._

_It's cold.  
__This feeling._

Cameron pulled her jacket tight around her shoulders and wandered towardthe empty court.

_Rachel shivered and looked to the sky. It held life immortal. Single acts of kindness, and choices that made a difference, were written in the stars. There was even a star for her. But she didn't know it. She knew she was cold, and she knew it was raining. She knew it was dark._

She looked toward the sky and forgot what if felt like to believe in the notion of belief. She lowered her head to gaze at a spot of sunshine - where it peeked through the trees in the distance to rest in a lonely pothole. A plastic bottle stashed away where no one but her could find it. A memory in her head that consumed her life and refused to frolic away.

_Rachel lowered her head to gaze down the barrel of a gun, then to gaze into the eyes above it. Cameron was still. House un-crumpled himself. All attention rested on Rachel as she fought with visions of the future, and then as she lost._

They were visions of a grieving brunette. A bottle of pills in her pocket and only time left to squander away. The cold zipper of her jacket clutched in her hand and a perfect picture of where they would find her.

_Yet here you stand - cold metal in hand.  
__Dead body on the floor.  
__In your head - this war,  
__That never will end. _

_Because redemption is nowhere._

_She saw it all from eyes that were not her own. Someone else's. Someone else, just as hopeless and helpless. _

It wasn't from a book. It wasn't from her mind. It wasn't just a catchy rhyme.

The body wasn't there. But it would be soon. And Cameron could already see it.

_She held a hand in the air, pointing a finger toward the sky like a gun, and cocked her thumb back. In a loud, dramatic whisper, "Pow! . . . . . . . . Pow!" she imitated the sound. It rang in the ears of all present - quietly, solemnly. _

Cameron could still hear the whispered vibrations of Rachel's prophetic '_pows_'. She sat against the chain-link fence and wondered why no one was there. Perhaps gray ghosts could be scarier than street-ballin' thugs. She opened the bottle and rattled the contents inside. The pills clapping against one another resembled an array of explosions - tiny gunshots - resounding into the neighborhood. Just as deadly. Not as kinetic, but sleeping and waiting. Waiting for their moment to shine.

Waiting for the trigger to be pulled at the start of a race for time.

_Again, Rachel saw the scene. She saw the future. She felt the regret, as if she'd pulled the trigger herself. Her eyes dilated, her fists clenched, her head spun a 360 circle. _

_It wasn't wrong!  
__It was right!  
__Don't back down.  
__Hold your fight._

She wouldn't back down even if she thought it was an option. This battle was hers to fight. This battle was hers by right. She wasn't given a choice the first time, but this time Cameron would chose.

_She stepped forward again, stepping into the gun - still raised. The cold metal pressed tight against a droplet of sweat on her forehead._

Tiny, white tablets were poured into the sweat on her palm. They were melting. She was melting. Life was melting away. The sun was now setting and casting dull shadows out across a barren land. (Yet no one told the morning horizon.)

"I'm not afraid to die," she attempted in a hollow voice. It wasn't quite as convincing as Rachel's assertion had been. She took a deep breath. She released it slow. She kissed the sky, one last time, and then she was ready to go.

"You can't kill yourself on a bright, sunny morning. It's contradictory."

Suddenly frozen in place, her hand stopped its progression to her mouth.

There was a cage of metal between him and the girl. "How does it feel to be in prison?"

She lowered her gaze to the blackened pavement - smushed against the bottoms of her thighs. How could House have found her? She was alone in the world, and she wished he would stop pretending otherwise. House couldn't be alone, because House couldn't have regret. Only regret could truly confine him to a world where nothing is true. A world where nothing is real. A world where only his fears and his doubts would be there to keep him company.

How naive she was. How naive she would always be.

"There's a door on the other end of the court," she responded finally with a sloppy gesture and an obvious disappointment in his presence. There is no prison where there is a door - an out, an escape.

"I wasn't referring to the fence." He linked his fingers with the diamonds of metal on a cage that was all to familiar. "How does it feel to be enslaved to your own lack of teardrops?" He wasn't sure whether he was asking Cameron, or whether he was asking himself. "To be the slave and the master. The whipped and the whipper." He rested his forehead on those same metal diamonds and peered through their translucence at Cameron. Like looking through precious Jasper or seeing though a costly Sardine stone - rusted metal never was so shiny. "To be the beggar and the rich man with the keys."

"I _was_ the beggar. But now I just have the keys." She slightly lifted her palm. Powdery pills began to glisten, like brand new keys to a tempting gate that lead to another realm. Be it paradise or purgatory - the ground, or a fiery pit - it was simply the lesser evil, and she was willing and ready to go there.

_Can't be damned if you don't believe._

_Can't believe if you refuse to think._

"How many?" House choked out with a small voice above Cameron's head.

For the first time since House had arrived, Cameron twisted her torso and squinted to look up at his face. He was standing directly behind her - his forehead on the fence and his fingers intertwined with the metal. "You mean – "

"I mean, is there enough for me?" The words sounded hesitant, like he hated to say them. He pursed his lips and blinked down at Cameron, waiting for the answer he needed.

Her eyes drifted back to the pills, and then to the bottle beside her. Slowly, she nodded a '_yes'_.

He made his way around the fence and limped through the rectangular opening. His leg was in a pain he could hardly even cope with, let alone actually walk on. He gritted his teeth as he slid his back down the fence and sat beside Dr. Cameron. A moment of silence passed - as he closed his eyes and breathed - and then he turned and held out his palm. Waiting for his share of the pills.


	15. 15: Everything

**Disclaimer: I do not own House M.D. or any of the characters from the series.**

_A/N: I feel strongly that this piece of literature will soon be coming to an end. I have probably chased more than a few people off with the level of angst in this story, so I thank everyone who has stuck with it. And thank you for all the reviews._

**Chapter 15: Everything**

Cameron kept her head down and watched him from the corner of her eye. She didn't want to give him the extra pills, but with him sitting beside her with an outstretched palm, she didn't really have much choice. That's when she decided that she never really did, and handed House a handful of the white, powdery keys. The bottle was now empty. And by consuming its contents, both Cameron and House would soon be empty as well.

He cupped his thumb and his fingers slightly to keep the pills from falling to the ground. Their feel against his palm was an intimate one - a frequented conversation between him and a five-year old friend. A friend that would finally kill him, in all the ways he had hoped for.

When he had walked around the fence just a moment ago, he hadn't actually planned on doing this. He had planned on knocking some sense into Cameron and then dragging her cute butt back to his house. But once on the ground beside her - beside his bottle of pills - he realized the situation he was in. This was something he had contemplated doing more times than the stars could count. And now he had his chance. Now he was sitting beside the one girl who could make him feel hope inside his hardened heart. The moment he left her side was the moment he could no longer take it. This way he would never have to.

Together, they could leave it all behind.

"You know she was still alive," he stared straight ahead, to the other side of the rusting fence.

Cameron turned her head to House and looked up into his blank, blue eyes. "I know," she whispered.

"All the pain, and the guilt, for nothing." His voice was low. And soft.

"It wasn't for nothing," Cameron traced her thumb around the smooth edge of a pill in her palm. "She killed him . . ."

"She did what she had to."

". . . And now she has killed herself."

He pondered for a while before speaking. This was all too surreal for him to properly register, and he fought to keep a level train of thought. The pavement beneath him was hard, but for the first time, he didn't notice. His leg was screaming with a burning sensation, but it fit the predicament nicely. Sunshine pooled in a puddle at his feet and begged to be able to heal him. A familiar siren in the distance, and a breeze to sweep it away. But there was no use in trying to hide it: the daytime had its fair share of sin. "So two are dead, and we're both to blame," he turned to look into Cameron's eyes and found them rich with conclusion.

"Why did you hold me back?" She had to know. If it was the last thing she ever heard, she had to hear why House had forced her to make the decision that would kill her.

"I did what I had to." A silence followed his confession, and he tore his gaze away from Cameron's. It was time to prepare himself for the coming minutes. "We're all just doing what we have to."

Cameron kept her eyes on his face. On his eyelashes, his pale blue eyes (how she would miss those eyes - or would she?), on his nose, his mouth, and his chin - all she'd ever wanted was to kiss them. On wrinkles that life had put there - wrinkles that death would erase.

A lie. Those wrinkles would always be there.

She watched as he fiddled with the shirttail of his oxford - as the pills melted away in his palm. Indecision took the place of conclusion, and she couldn't tear this new pain away. She had never meant for this to happen. First Rachel. Now House. Quite a slaughter of blood was soon to be on her lifeless hands. Soon. Very soon.

She was killing him. She knew it. And somewhere deep within her selfishness, she allowed it. Cameron watched as House brought the heel of his hand to his mouth, and she did the same with her hand. Two hands poised in the air. Two people ready for the afterlife.

Another lie.

And then he turned back to Cameron.

The truth.

Finally, the truth.

Blue on green and a shade of emotional turquoise. House reached out with his free hand to touch a finger to her cheek. Damaged, yet delicate. Softer then he'd ever deserved - even in his dying moments. In her eyes, he saw monster trucks and cotton candy. A Christmas present wrapped in gold. He saw her apartment door shutting in his face and a date he had agreed to suffer through. A tie he had worn just for her. He saw Stacey. He saw Wilson and Cuddy and Foreman and Chase - a place he was saying goodbye to. A hospital, a mass of fading memories, a lonely haven and a life he could have had.

Two more gentle fingers joined the lone one on her cheek. He ran his thumb along her lower lip, staring into her watering eyes. "This is what you want, isn't it?"

She meekly shook her head and the tears spilled onto her cheeks. This had never been what she'd wanted - for House to come and join her and for them to both drift away. She was meant to do this alone. To go into eternity with House by her side was romantic as well as tempting - one last cure for her loneliness - but she loved him too much to do that.

And yet - it seemed - he loved her enough to let her.

"You're fingers . . ." she breathed. They were so calloused and warm and caressing. "I can't . . ." but she choked on the words as his thumb moved to the top lip and began tracing the outline of her mouth.

As long as his fingertips were touching her face, she didn't want to leave the sensation. She didn't want to leave this life and miss what he might be able to bring her. But she was afraid of the moment that House would remove his hand. Because that would be the moment this life lost everything she wanted.

"What if you die before me?" Cameron asked through the thumb at her mouth. She wouldn't be able to lie there on that court and watch his flame of blue die to nothing - watch as the last flicker faded.

"It'll only be a minute or so before," he assured her. "I'll die before you no matter what we do." This way, it wouldn't be fifteen years or more. She'd only have to watch for a fleeting second, and then they would both be gone.

He flattened his entire palm against the beautiful curve of her cheek. He held the only thing he wanted in that hand - and the only thing he could never regain in the other. In one constant motion, he dumped all the pills on the ground and moved to gather Cameron closer. She released her grasp on the pills as well and they slipped one by one to the pavement, as rough arms wrapped their way around her. The decision was mutual; the pain had to stop.

House practically lunged at her as he pressed his torso to hers, sandwiching her between himself and the fence. Desperate fingers pushed against his ribs and clung to the back of his shirt. Familiar nails dug deep into the muscles of his back.

He would not let her go. A thousands thugs could come and go and threaten him with grief and regret. The sky could open up and lightning could shower down. The earth could part and swallow them whole - and still, he would not let her go.

Because that would be the moment this life lost everything he wanted.

**To be continued . . . **


	16. 16: Redemption

**Disclaimer: I do not own House M.D. or any of the characters from the series.**

_A/N: I created the dialogue at the end of this chapter while playing street ball outside in the rain. On a rusty goal, on a dreary street, in the middle of a desolate downpour. A crack of lightning; then another. I heard the sirens, and I closed my eyes. And for a moment in time, I lived it. I felt it. The words just flowed from the darkness around me. It was every writer's dream. _

**Chapter 16:** **Redemption**

Neither knew how long it had been, and neither of them really cared. Minutes. Hours maybe. A lifetime. It couldn't have possibly mattered. Because Redemption was on the way. And they both had to hold on for as long as they could until Redemption could hold on for them.

Somewhere along the way, the midday heat had settled down and the sun had called off its torture. Only rays of light - like a shaft of faraway hope - now glistened through the rusty fence. It poured streaks of shadow across their faces, and checkered the court with a pattern.

(He held on like he knew nothing else.)

It melted two mountains of powdery pills that lay in tiny heaps behind him.

(He could always use them later. If Redemption never showed up.)

It was the waiting game now - and as lawless as it was, they both played like they knew the rules. Hugging and squeezing and holding on tight. They were saving each other from a Cut and Paste that never really could be Undone. Death was forever.

Or maybe not. In which case, they were both in trouble.

His arm on the cement, his face on Cameron's shoulder, his legs beyond the knowledge of location. The pain just blended together now - it was physical, it was psychological, it was whimsical. In his thigh and in his heart. In his every everything. He was wrapped around her and wrapped around something he never even thought he could hold. Something he for sure couldn't touch.

An idea, maybe. A dream. A breath. A breath he couldn't hold forever.

They were lying on the pavement - the way the should have been - but breath continued to come. No little, white pills had been ingested. That door remained closed for now. Bolted and locked with a red-lettered sign. _Beware. _Of the danger._ Warning. Keep Out._ So few do follow the rules.

Cameron let him hold her like the end was near. _War of the Worlds_ on her brain, and House was the only man left. They were a team now, and their mission was clear. She kept her nails in his the skin at his back and her head on the blacktopped pavement. Both of her legs around one of his and she didn't even know which one. His left arm was draped across her and his fingertips were linked with the fence. His knuckles were white and his body was tense; her own body was tense against him.

Sirens and dogs barking. A basketball bouncing. A car speeding by on the street. It was obviously afternoon now. The innocence of the morning had passed. Three teenage boys came swaggering toward the basketball court, only to see a man and a woman lying lifeless up next to the fence. They turned and swaggered away, wanting nothing to do with any trouble there would be if the cops showed up to investigate. The ball was heard bouncing all the way back down the street, until it finally faded and blended with the sounds of the neighborhood.

It wasn't until his body denied him further strain that House allowed his muscles to relax. He unclenched them slowly, one by one, and softened against Cameron's shoulder. And that was the moment that he realized . . .

They were going to be okay.

It was the first time in six years that he felt that. The first time in six years that he knew it.

He had jumped off a cliff, and three-fourths of the way to the bottom, he began to wish that he hadn't. When the ground is just below you and you're speeding toward it - when there's nothing you can do to stop it - suddenly life, and all of its burdens, are trivial and insignificant. All of those problems that couldn't be fixed - they are all just a meaningless whisper. A passing breath, a fading thought. A stupid decision of blindness. And none of it really matters.

Because the ground is there, and you are here, and death is a millisecond away.

But as House opened his eyes and unclenched his muscles, he realized he hadn't hit the ground. Something had stopped him. Something had saved him. Here he was, holding on for dear life, when life was already his. Redemption had come, and he hadn't seen it. Because he was too busy cringing to look.

"Unclench," he whispered to Cameron. Her eyes were closed and her muscles were tight. But she had felt House loosen against her. She wanted to loosen as well. She wanted to know that she wouldn't fall if she released her grip from his shirt. "It's okay," he whispered again. "Just let go."

Let go. It was the one thing she couldn't do.

House felt the blood as it dripped to his ribs. There was something about it that was cleansing. Cameron's nails were imbedded so deep that his skin wore badges of her pain. And he would keep those badges forever. Touch them every night as he fell asleep and remember how Redemption found him.

He untangled his fingers from the metal fence and let his hand drop to the pavement at Cameron's back. And he waited. He breathed into her neck and waited. He couldn't do this for her. Cameron would have to let go on her own.

"I'll fall," she whispered shakily.

"No you won't. I promise." He cupped his hand at her back and stroked his thumb on her spine.

"But I deserve to." Her words were muffled by the closing of her throat and her respiration became more aware.

"No . . ." House mumbled into the flesh at her jaw. "We don't deserve to."

"I can't live," she shook her head and the tears rolled down. They soaked into the concrete and moistened it with salt and regret. A regret that she still held onto. A regret that she shared with the ground. "I can't live up to that teenager's future. I can't be her legacy for her." Her voice squeaked as the salt spilled over, as it soaked the ground even more. "I can't bear the burden I was left with."

House remained still, and his thumb stopped stroking. He remembered that night, and what Rachel had yelled at them right before the car sped away. That was why Cameron was hurting. That was why she couldn't let go. "When she said '_Change the world for me_', she didn't mean 'Win the Nobel Prize and prevent global warming'." He sighed and closed his eyes to let his words flow pure and untainted. "She meant _live_. Live _for_ her. Be happy in a place that _she _couldn't."

He buried his face even deeper into her shoulder, as he felt her muscles unclenching. "What Rachel did - it wasn't self-sacrifice. It was common sense. She was meant to die, and you were meant to live. All she did was _be okay_ with it. All you need to do is let her." Cameron's fingernails were slowly retreating from their bloody holes in his back. "The disease took her life." His thumb once again began stroking. "She didn't take your place."

"She killed herself . . ." Cameron squeaked out in a strangled breath.

"A day before the disease would have killed her." A leg became soft against his. An arm gradually loosened from its death-grip. "It's not your fault," he whispered. "It's not your fault."

"So . . . what? We just forget?" she breathed. Every muscle was finally loosened. Surrendered.

"No. We remember. We think about it - every minute of every hour of every day. And then we remember this day."

The pills behind him were soggy now. Soggy and forgotten. Replaced.

A single teardrop ran from his eye and soaked into the ground with Cameron's. They were drops of salt and remembrance. They were drops of a pain that would always be there, but a pain that was finally beautiful.

A pain that was worth every second of the fall. Every second of the beautiful rescue.

They were drops that would free them. Drops that would heal them.

They were drops of Redemption.

**The End.**


End file.
